


Plans: Death Cab for Jaime & Brienne

by Ill_Tempered_Clavier



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Introspection, Songfic, a song of fluff and angst, only very occasional smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-08-30 20:57:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 52,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8548873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ill_Tempered_Clavier/pseuds/Ill_Tempered_Clavier
Summary: Song fics inspired by the album Plans by Death Cab for Cutie.





	1. Your Heart is an Empty Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime arrives at King's Landing, end of season 6 and has some thoughts.
> 
> Inspiration is Death Cab for Cutie's "Your Heart is an Empty Room," the lyrics of which were too appropriate to not attempt to knock something up.
> 
> My first fic! Unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine.

He looks out on the complete destruction, embers smoking on the ground and to his surprise, feels completely dead inside. He, who has always felt too much, is numb aside from a low level of general dread that eats past his stomach, up through his heart, and lodges somewhere in his throat. 

His mind is blank as it tries to understand the rubble, comprehend the broken pieces of masonry and humanity that used to comprise the neighborhood around the Sept of Baelor. He tilts his head back, eyes unfocused on the sky above and his mind is turned to another source of innocent, blameless blue which both comforts and confounds him.

As loath as he is to admit it, the Stark words are right: winter is coming. This is not the season for wholesale destruction, not with so many pending outside threats and reaped harvests. 

And no one he’s asked can tell him about Tommen. Or won’t. But they do say that Cersei is to be crowned later this afternoon and his presence is required for the coronation. More than half the peers of the realm gone and he should be glad, but all he tastes are ashes. His sister is safe and about to achieve the crown she has lusted for her entire life in her own right and if there is no word, well, Jaime is not simple: while he is a man of war, he is also a child of one of the greatest politicians the Seven Kingdoms has ever seen. Clearly Tommen is dead. But how? For all her faults, she is…was a devoted mother. So who did the deed?

Once he would never have suspected her, but looking at the wholesale destruction and their past promises to each other to burn down all their enemies, he finds that he is no longer sure and the ashes grow heavier in his mouth. 

He takes his water skin to try to rinse the taste away and stares into the sky. It barely makes a dent in the bitterness on his tongue, but he lets his mind lose itself in the astonishing blue above for a moment, takes a few deep breaths, and comes to himself a little stronger than before. 

He has to know. He has to find out what happened before he can choose his next move. After all, Cersei had begged him to come to her rescue. But if he finds this destruction was not needful, that their last child did not die at the hands of their enemies, then he knows not. He can feel his right hand forming a fist, now surprisingly gold in his mind's eye—the hand that joined them coming into the world together has long been severed and she’s never looked at him the same. And if he’s truthful, he’s never looked upon her the same since, either. 

His father is dead: Tywin can no longer be disappointed by his crippled golden son. His brother is fled, knowing now the true debt between them and has found him wanting. His sister has likely turned into a poor version of the mad tyrant king he slayed long ago. He spares a thought for Genna, Kevan, Addam, and the rest but knows they will get along fine without him—maybe better without him and his many taints.

As he stares into the fathomless blue sky above, his mind turns north to woman who never asked anything of him other than his duty and his honor, a woman who treated him with more kindness than any and took the trouble to actually push past her own anger and mistrust to listen to his words. 

He doesn’t imagine he will be welcomed up north, but he thinks at least one person will be truly glad to see him there, which is one more than he imagines will be ready to welcome him for his own sake up ahead in the Red Keep. 

He squares his shoulders and moves forward thinking about all the possibilities.


	2. Summer Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne up north finds her mind wandering on the theme of summer skin.
> 
> This is still pretty introspective and shoe-gazey, but I'm hoping (fingers crossed) I can manage something with a bit more action and dialog in the next one.

It almost seems cruel that in this bitter weather, all she can think about is summer. While part of her knows this is mildest winter will be for quite some time, in all the blowing white of snow and freezing wind, perversely all she can think of is warm blue: sapphire water where she and her brother swam in their summer skins, in joy and innocence until the ocean took that, too. The Iron Islanders would say that their Drowned God was just taking his due, but she cannot accept this and finds no comfort in that which is dead never dying. And not because the truth is hard: she knows hard truths, she has been living them every day, every moment for years. 

But in the unforgiving snow and slicing wind, the image of summer stays with her, as stubborn as she herself is. With visions of her father, her mother, her brother, her sisters, most gone now and all far away as summer is in truth, she is minded of Lady Catelyn’s tone of voice that turned “the Knights of Summer” from a beautiful dream and benediction into a sad and cynical title.

As her mind is swathed in thoughts sad, cynical, beautiful, and of summer against the harsh weather around her as she tromps through with her patrol from Winterfell, it turns to maybe the oldest knight of summer she has known: Ser Jaime. His summer skin, his summer hair, and his summer eyes that had been cold as winter when they first traveled together come unbidden, but not unprecedented, to her mind’s eye. (And to her heart as well, but that is a secret she keeps well hidden from herself so much so that she could almost deny it with plausibility despite her ingrained inability to lie.)

And after traveling so long together, when she would not capitulate to Hoat’s men, and Ser Jaime overplayed his hand—literally—after winning a few rounds, it was strange but not strange to be literally naked in front of each other in the baths. They had been stripping each other’s defenses away already so slowly for so long, they did not notice the physical boundaries gone until the steam dissipated and they saw each other clearly for the first time without pretense. They peeled back the layers, taking turns, exposing secret wounds, hidden scars, and new skin.

She knew too much of life to expect anything to really change after they returned to King’s Landing, so it was more than she’d hoped for that he still saw her when he looked at her and sent her off in blue armor with a quest and a horse and a squire and his sword. He did not leave his fearsomely beautiful sister—she did not really expect him to, not truly—but his Valyrian blade showed the degree and sincerity of his regard, and that’s something to warm a knight in the night as she trudges through snow drifts as the seasons shift, the warmth that comes from knowing from whom her armor came, her winter skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, un-beta'd, so all mistakes are mine but the characters and story are Martin's and the music is Death Cab for Cutie's. Mostly show cannon with some book refs for fun and flavor.


	3. Crooked Teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime finds Cersei on the throne.

Despite the recent change in weather, Jaime finds Kings Landing bathed in warmth. While he tries to ignore his imagination, it whispers it’s the leftover heat from the wildfyre that has infected the city like a plague. 

He approaches the throne room, and sort of knows this role. He played the part of the noble knight-hostage serving the throne once before; he thinks he can remember his lines and his marks. He hopes to not reuse the blocking given the current casting, regardless of their differences in past productions. But this time, Jaime knows what it means to stand in his light (particularly light that is not created by burning people alive), and he will not accede it to an unworthy sovereign: never again.

When the doors open, he sees her alone aside from a towering, blank-faced man in Kingsguard armor and the stripped maester who took his hand; when he sees Cersei’s proud, determined look that barely registers him…he takes a slow, deep breath as he strides forward—not in time with his rapidly beating heart, but the conscious ebb and flow of his lungs. Maybe the small piece of him that he and Cersei still share moves him to tilt his golden hand just so it catches the late afternoon light that pierces the throne room like another Valyrian sword for the perilous throne.

Cersei smiles, beautiful and golden.

He catches his breath. He wants to believe that maybe, after all this, they will find a way. That his fear that his lover of so very many years, his sister has truly triumphed and is ready to claim him for her own in front of the sheep because what can they matter in the face of their mutual love and sacrifice? (Jaime is not listening to Tyrion’s ghostly litany of “Lancel and Kettleblack and Moonboy” in his ear. He is not thinking of Brienne’s pure motives and pure purpose and pure eyes, not in this moment.)

Jaime bends the knee. “Your grace.”

Cersei smiles down at him from her sharp seat, the cat that got the cream. (Although the cream might have some sharp tin shards in it.) “Brother.” She continues to smile benevolently at him while he kneels on the stones in full armor, turning her head as to admire how he looks in the shaft of light. “My dearest, oldest friend.” She pauses again considering him for quite some time.

“You left me to the High Sparrow’s machinations.”

Jaime knows he cannot retort as his heart cries out to, not in open court, even if court is just a monstrosity and a stripped maester.

“I burned them all, brother. I burned all my enemies.”

“And what of your son, your grace? Tommen?” Jaime is trying to keep appearances as he doesn’t know how deeply Cersei has let the other two into her confidence. 

“Tommen could not handle the pressures of being king. It grieves me _deeply_ ,” and her subdued but anguished tone is genuine. She truly is sad for Tommen’s death, even if she is nearly as glad for her own ascendancy. 

And considering the carnage and the rubble he saw coming in, Cersei’s attitude regarding their son’s death (not to mention the manner of his death), Jaime begins to realize that he is done. He is done. He is done with Cersei. 

He never could have imagined that he’d be ready to cast off his other half, that he’d gladly hold the blade to sever the connection, but looking at and hearing the tone of her voice…the Cersei he loved is either dead or never existed in the first place. She makes him feel dirty and small.

He now knows what it’s like when a woman makes him feel noble and strong. It’s been so very long since Cersei did that, and Brienne (if he’s truly honest with himself), never asked him to do anything that would dishonor him or work against his conscience. In fact, Brienne has only asked him one thing: to live. (Although to be fair, that is also the most difficult thing he’s ever been asked.)

In that moment, kneeling on the floor in front of his sister, Jaime realizes he’s wearing the same calm, blank, pleasant face he wore for Aerys. (He never had to hide so much from Robert who wasn’t discerning enough to know the difference. Hell, the man never figured out that he was being cuckolded by his own good-brother.)

“Your grace,” Jaime begins, “I came as soon as I could after securing Riverrun per your orders. It took rather longer because Walder Frey does love to gloat…although I hear he paid for that conceit in the end.” Jaime pauses. “I would have a word privately, your grace.”

She returns a stare nearly as blank as his own, but her eyes flick to the side. She is thinking, considering. 

“Fine. In my chambers.” She cuts her eyes to Qyburn. “You’re dismissed.” She looks to the near giant at her shoulder. “You will wait outside.”

They walk to her rooms, all three in silence where the near-giant whom Jaime swears looks like Gregor Clegane peals off to stand guard by the door.

Cersei is the last to enter and bars the door behind her and turns on her brother. She pours herself some wine and drinks deeply.

“You know, I was so very mad the day I realized that I would always need a man to give me power. I recall the exact moment: I was eight and father was browsing marriage contracts for my hand. At least he shared them with me, read them to me.” She looks out the window, lost in the tale. 

“I told him they didn’t sound worthy.” She gives a bitter half-smiled huff out the window. “Father said, ‘You do not determine that: I do. And they may well not be worthy of you. But they and you will serve a necessary purpose for the family. This is your duty.’ ” Cersei’s look goes as cold as winter staring off at the memory and it nearly cuts Jaime to shreds. “You risked dying by your own hand and wits with a sword in your hand with a foe you could choose. I was told to _submit gratefully_ and _gracefully_ to a death by inches. I endured then, but now? I refuse. _I utterly refuse._ Never again.” She levels her green eyes burning with wildfyre at Jaime. “Robert conquered the throne through conquest and luck. I have _earned_ my way here.”

Cersei takes a breath, considers, and turns back to her brother. “Jaime, dearest, I refuse to be defined by a man. Not my son. Not even you.” She fills and drains her goblet with the Arbor red waiting tableside.

This is truth. They both know it. They both still know each other enough to know this.

“I loved only you. I was faithful. I knew no other woman.” Jaime can’t seem to let this go, conscious as he is now of their bond rotting away before his eyes. He has to know. He has to hear her say it.

“Did you know only one sword while you fought? As a squire? As a knight? As the heir of Casterly Rock? As a knight of the Kingsguard?” Cersei sneers. “I took whatever weapon I had at hand seeing as I could only fight with my cunt instead of a sword.” She sweeps off and takes a goblet of wine. “And damn you for judging me for using my weapons.”

“I _loved _you! I gave up my birthright to join the Kingsguard and keep you safe! To give you succor! As you asked me to! I did it for _you_ , Cersei! Because I love you more than I loved my lands and title,” He hisses—just because the monstrosity on the door looks like death warmed over doesn’t mean it is. He also hasn’t forgotten Varys. “Do you realize we have never shared a bed for a full night, so worried that we that we’d get caught? That a septa or father would find out? Well, it doesn’t matter now! You’re queen. Hells, most of the kingdom knows anyway!” __

__Jaime is nearly choking on his own feeling at this point, desperately trying to keep his voice down because he knows spiders and little birds are everywhere._ _

__“I love you. I. LOVE. YOU. You are now queen. You have destroyed your rivals and no one is left who can object.” He looks off for a moment, pausing, then walks up to capture Cersei’s eyes so she cannot hide. “If I come to your bed as you ask, will you wake up with me tomorrow?”_ _

__Cersei’s face is painted with a number of different emotions at once, but Jaime can’t quite tell which is winning out. She takes the wine goblet and downs it._ _

__“Jaime.”_ _

__“What.” He holds her eyes, face the blankest she’s seen it since her wedding day._ _

__“It can’t be. My hold on the throne is too new.”_ _

__“And your lust for power is greater than your love for me.”_ _

__She can’t meet his eyes, at first, but then she does, all fire. “I want to choose my own life for once. Father made my choices for so long. I will not let you do the same. If I have to take the throne to do so, I will.” She flounces away to look out another window._ _

__“I tried to keep you safe,” Jaime whispers. “I’m sorry it wasn’t Rhaegar. I’m sorry Robert was so awful. I’m sorry I missed you every night we could not spend together.” She fills and drains her goblet again._ _

__She looks at him over her shoulder, still impossibly beautiful despite her close shorn hair. “We both have been taken by the game, have we not, brother? I was taken by the Baratheons. The Stark-Tullys stole you for a year, and then you lost your sword hand. We’ve lost so much: time, opportunity…” and she looks down, then up at Jaime. “Each other.”_ _

__Green eyes meet green eyes and they hold. They know. It’s true: they are no longer one. The actual sundering of one into two hurt, but admitting the thing hurts thrice as much as either of them would admit. They know. She begins to sway, and Jaime catches her as she falls into his arms. He carries her to her bed, holdeing her not as close as he might have once, but gently he lays her down._ _

__“I think you are tired, your grace, with the great weight you carry on your shoulders,” he withdraws with the same tact and gentility he gave to Aerys so that he might not trouble Elia. While he knows of no one who might fall victim to their sovereign’s whims, his conscience doesn’t like to make assumptions. He pulls up the covers and Cersei is calm, peaceful even. She is acquiescent and it calls back their childhood, back to the last time he truly in his heart of hearts felt like he could be a noble knight. He knows now that they are both only human: she is not a gentle lady and he is not a gentle man. But his heart yearns to remember what it was like before those ugly truths dug their claws into both of them, each of them transfiguring themselves into different kinds of monsters._ _

__Jaime leans over and kisses her ever so softly on the forehead. Cersei meets his eyes and gently pushes back his hair behind his ears, caressing his temple._ _

__They know this is goodbye._ _

__Jaime is gone within the hour._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess I got used to writing every day, so I've resurrected this.


	4. Someday You Will Be Loved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne
> 
> Some lyrics from the song because, you know, song fic. We're almost done with the exposition! I blame the track list. :shifty eyes: The next one's a doozy!

As much as Jaime wants to go straight to the stables, he recognizes it’s not practical: how long before his sister realizes his defection and sends the guard after him? Brushing past a plain young servant girl bringing more wine to Cersei, he goes back to his chambers in the White Sword Tower to gather anything of value. He blindly packs while his mind twists itself in memories of Cersei as a girl, eyes like summer, her beauty still true. 

He considers leaving her a note, but when he thinks about it, there’s nothing left to say. They’ve said it all. And if he is honest with himself, he does not regret leaving. He regrets that he _must_ leave, that this is what they’ve turned into, but not the leaving itself. 

Jaime survived the loss of his sword hand; he will survive this sundering as well, sew up the wound with blood running red down the golden needle and thread of a different life where is is not asked to do the dishonorable for love. After all, what has he really lost? The love of his lover? He wonders if she truly ever loved him, wanted him, when she stopped if she did. Does she have a sister's love left? He doesn't know and isn't sure Cersei does, either.

He needs to move and get as much physical distance between them as possible (the emotional distance has been growing every minute), to take advantage of however long he has before Cersei wakes and thinks to send for him. He is eager for air clean of the stench of Kings Landing, knowing it is behind him for good, to leave this bad dream behind him. He idly wonders how long it will take Cersei to notice.

Jaime takes a final look around the room, does a final inventory of his saddle bags. He takes off his white cloak, lays it out on the bed. He can no longer wear it, he cannot bear its weight without the support of Cersei’s love. After all, what’s another broken oath?

He makes his way to the royal armory and takes Widow’s Wail. It seems fair given where he’s heading. He does not hesitate to add “thief” to the necklace of titles he wears. Yes, he is stealing it, but to return it to those it came from. Yes, he is the Kingslayer, but he saved a city. Yes, he is abandoning the Kingsguard, but the kings are dead. The accusations swirl in his head, blurring into one another. Yes, he is a Lannister, but he's going to pledge to another house because he has debts to pay.

Jaime squares his shoulders, shoulders his burdens, both physical and otherwise, and makes his way to the stable. 

He doesn’t know if someday he will be loved, but with each step down the tower stairs, he finds a fragile hope growing in the light of a slowly dawning truth: he has started to love again already, and for longer than he knew.

* ~ ~ ~ * ~ ~ ~ * ~ ~ ~ * ~ ~ ~ *

Brienne stares up at the ceiling, unable to sleep. Being Lady Sansa’s sworn sword and the only woman guard means that she has her own chamber. She appreciates having the privacy, particularly on difficult nights such as this. She can slay any number of wights and knock man after man into the dust, but she is defenseless against her feelings. Large, silent tears trace her cheeks with the gentle thoroughness of a lover's touch as she thinks of Jaime and wonders what will become of him.

She was there in the room when the raven came from the south announcing Tommen’s death and Cersei’s ascension, the demand that the North come and bend the knee at her coronation. King Jon, Lady Sansa, Ser Davos, and their most trusted bannermen discuss the wider implications. Would Cersei split her forces to come all the way up north during Winter? Can they afford to split forces and keep more garrisoned at Winterfell than they had intended instead of sending the bulk of their strength to the wall? Should they gamble on the rumors of the Targaryen girl keeping the lioness busy? 

Brienne’s head buzzes. What Jaime must be going through, the destruction of the keep by what can only be wildfyre, the death of his last son followed by the crowning of his sister-lover. She replays their last conversation at Riverrun in her head, trying to work out how he felt about things then, which feels like years, not weeks. He was annoyed by the situation, she knows. He dismissed it all as pointless politics, said they shouldn’t argue about it. She remembers his eyes, his tone when he refused to take back Oathkeeper. When he said, “It will always be yours,” in her heart of hearts, she dreams that he wasn’t just talking about the sword. She cannot believe he feels what she feels for him, but…she thinks she can concede he feels something for her: respect, surely. Trust (they have a truce, after all). A kind of friendly affection, perhaps? That’s about as ambitious as her imagination allows and she thinks it will probably be as close as she will ever come to being loved by a man who is not her kin.

She knows what she feels for him even if she dare not name it to herself, and the thought that they will once again find themselves on opposite sides of the war claws at something deep inside her.

Eventually she falls into a fitful sleep, battling nightmares of King Jon taking Jaime’s head, of a White Walker felling him in battle, or perhaps the worst: of them finding themselves opposite each other in the battle lines, swords drawn. The dreams blur upon waking, but she carries the weight of them with her all day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We will start to see some more movement (literally and figuratively) with the next chapter; the songs are dictating plot. I know this one is short, but the next chapter is waaaay longer and further reaching than I expected (I might even split it in two as I'm up to over 3.5k words). I'm trying to learn to not give into my insta-post tendencies so as to try to deliver a better, more cohesive story, but will hope it will pay off all this extensive set up!


	5. Different Names for the Same Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime's journey north ends. He has brings a modest proposal to King Jon in front of his full court.
> 
> Note rating change, possibly not the last. Veeerry long chapter today! (Hopefully not too long.)

On his way, Jaime congratulates himself on managing to get out of Kings Landing without much notice. His ruthlessly minimal packing and ability to live rough serves him well, as does having patrolled the roads before in the past. He knows how they are most likely to come look for him, although he wonders at the skill of his pursuers. He is, after all, one of the most experienced soldiers at this point in the city and seeing how starved the city and the guards are, well, the gold cloaks are not up to standard. 

Would Cersei be foolish (or egotistical) enough to send Lannister troops after him? He smiles. He’s heard them talk at night about her for years when they didn’t know he was listening. She may have the looks, the name, the crown, and sit the throne, but he’s eaten and fought and bled with them. He doesn’t think they’ll mutiny, but neither does he think they’ll be particularly circumspect about their efforts given recent events. With the quality of her Queensguard these days, none of them would know any better even if she sends them to supervise, misbegotten idiots that they are.

As he rides wending his way using a complicated path taking an irregular combination the high road, back roads, and off-road travel, he visualizes a map of Westeros in his head, a thing crumpled and stained by his own experiences and memories. Harrenhal, Riverrun, the Twins, White Harbor, Winterfell: he will avoid them all except his final destination. As he passes each milestone, he imagines sitting a little taller, envisioning casting off each place’s hold on him, the man that he was then. He is leaving these places behind. He has his sights firmly on his future hopes.

He has never traveled so far alone, he muses. He’s always had companions (of varying quality), been too important to be allowed to ride without the safety in numbers…well, except for when he left Riverrun in Brienne’s and Cleos’s custody. It didn’t work too well for cousin Cleos, but who would have thought then how that journey would end up changing his life? He remembers despising her—he couldn’t dredge up enough care to properly hate her. He remembers insulting her, using his sharp smile and sharper tongue to try to get a rise out of her.

 _Now he would like to use his tongue to get a rather different kind of rise out of her_ —the thought ambushes him unbidden. It startles him out of his thoughts and he refocuses his awareness on the road and surrounding area.

The rhythm of his horse and the quiet of the road lulls him back into his thoughts. Who would have thought that he’d willingly leave his sister for Brienne? That his heart would feel so light, despite its worry and the rashness of his decision? Jaime is not so stupid as to think he will be welcomed with open arms even _if_ Brienne is happy to see him—and he admits she might not be; while he is not the politician of his family, he recognizes that his arrival will put her at risk—or to her more likely concern, it will risk their belief in her oaths and honor. 

It is a thought he chews over in his mind as he rides: how he can prove the sincerity and seriousness of his intentions to King Jon, his bannermen, and the household of Winterfell? Some ideas are somber, and some make him smile. He suspects he will need them all at the ready; he won’t know until he surveys the field to know what weapon is called for.

He continues the long trek north. Jaime doesn’t much register where he is other than he is making progress, and that he is not marked much by other passing travelers, something that worries him less the farther north he gets as the lack of a bed or a bath or a laundress will do things to a man’s looks. (He packed his armor and one set of good clothes for his initial audience. He has two sets of sturdy but plain clothes for his journey and keeps his golden hand covered in the custom glove he had made some months back. Widow’s Wail is hidden in the bedroll while he wears a plain but serviceable blade on his right hip.) He indulges in inns infrequently, not because he can’t afford the fee, but because he can’t afford the notice. Plus, he doesn’t know if his gold might not be yet another bargaining chip—it’s been a double-edged arakh before. And of course, he has no sapphires.

Having no companions, Jaime’s mouth is silent, but he has endless conversations in his head with so very many different people: Cersei, his mother, his father, Tyrion (which hurts his heart in a number of different ways), Brienne, Lady Catelyn, Jon Snow, Lady Sansa. With some, he is confessing, others arguing, and still others pleading. Jaime realizes as he draws nearer to his destination that he is making his own peace with his life. He realizes he expects to die, whether at King Jon’s hand (and wouldn’t it have some justice if he wielded Oathkeeper in the act?) or by some sort of unsanctioned skullduggery (because he’s certainly done enough to the Starks and their bannermen to warrant midnight vengeance). He knows the king won’t offer him bread and salt and then kill him: Jaime won’t swear to what Sansa’s experiences have done to her, but given what he remembers of the lad, he suspects the painful honor of Stark blood runs true in Eddard’s bastard—a thought that makes him smile.

The long road means that Jaime is truly ready when he sees Winterfell. The trip has been a vigil of sorts. He’s half surprised he’s gotten here without being intercepted—not because he is still the untouchable golden knight he once was—losing his hand well disabused him of that notion—but because Cersei really hates giving up her toys. She either has much bigger fish to fry or her forces really _are_ that incompetent. He doesn’t flatter himself: he suspects a little bit of both.

He does give himself a little extra time to gather himself before he rides up to the gates to discover his fate because he’s not dumb or suicidal. Midday, he stops by a frigid stream so he can take full advantage of the warmth of the brief winter sun as he doesn’t want to light a fire. He takes the coldest bath of his life and changes out his travel-stained clothes into his finery, packs away the glove. He considers the armor, but decides it’s better to leave it off, but does wear Widow’s Wail.

Then, with a deep breath, he approaches the gates.

“Who approaches?” one the guards on the wall asks.

“Ser Jaime Lannister. I seek audience with his grace, King Jon.”

The guard laughs. “Yeah? Well, I fucked the queen last night and all. You think we’ll let you in, even if you are the Kingslayer?”

Jaime raises his head so his hair catches the light. He does the same with his golden hand. “I come alone. Do you see an army or even an escort? Have you noticed any campfires?”

The guards confer amongst themselves. “We will send word to his grace. You will wait here.”

“Understood.” Jaime adopts a relaxed but not lackadaisical pose. He doesn’t want to look defensive but neither does he want to appear to not care. It takes longer than he likes but less long than he feared before a runner approaches the guards to relay whatever order the king has.

“I guess you’ve more lives than you’ve got hands, Kingslayer. The king will see you.” They open the gates. A boy takes his horse and Jaime dismounts smoothly; he’s an old hand doing it as he is now.

He finds himself surrounded by guard escort of no fewer than eight men. Jaime almost feels flattered that they think him this dangerous or important. They flank him into the throne room where King Jon sits on Eddard Stark’s chair, Lady Sansa at his right side. He sees Littlefinger behind Lady Sansa on her left, but on _her_ right stands the reason he his here. He can’t help it, not even with all of his childhood court training, their eyes meet first, locking. She turns bright red and a warm smile shines unbidden. 

A quick glance at the rest of the room reveals the mix of northern lords he’d expected with a few surprises: Ser Davos he can tell by the man’s shortened fingers (an extra surprise as he sits in the same room with Brienne and still lives), a tall wildling man, and a girl who can only be young Lady Mormont. He hasn’t met her, but she favors her house, looking twice as fierce and thrice as intelligent as her kinsman Ser Jorah. His eyes stutter on her—he realizes he may need to consider her in his various stratagems. 

He turns his full attention to King Jon. “Your grace,” Jaime gives his best courtly bow, deep enough to please a king. Sansa and Littlefinger are the only ones in the room to recognize it for what it is…or is meant to be, then he kneels. “As current Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, I pledge my fealty to you, King Jon, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”

There is an audible gasp throughout the courtroom. Jon takes a moment, contemplating the man kneeling before him: once an idol, now a hated enemy. He considers that he has made peace with other hated enemies for the sake of the war on winter, and that if Ser Jaime truly commands the west, then he can bring much needed resources—including fighters—to the cause. He glances at Sansa and sees her face cold and absolutely still—not a dove trying to avoid a predator’s seeking gaze, but a raptor considering how to strike. She has no cause to love the Lannisters and welcome this alliance. She is not striking yet, though, and he can practically see her thinking through how she might use Lannister’s arrival and pledge to their advantage. 

A tilt of the head shows Littlefinger actually betraying a slight hint of surprise at this turn of events. Another slight tilt shows Brienne is well and truly flustered. She maintains her guard with a steady stance, but her eyes are uncommonly bright and she is blushing like the leaves of a weirwood. Jon had heard rumors that she was his whore, but having known Brienne since, he cannot credit it. However, he does not dismiss that there is _something _between the two of them, however unlikely, because while Lannister looks to Jon with a steady gaze, he saw that first desperate glance that they shared. He may not know much, but he knows two people drawing strength from each other with a single look. He knows what it’s like to give and get with such.__

__He is intrigued and he finds himself in a position—and with justification—to be able to indulge his curiosity. He leaves Jaime on his knees before him because it suits him, will slightly appease his bannermen, and anything that discomforts Lannister can be used. Jon doesn’t enjoy this sort of thing, but he’s come to recognize the required pageantry of it all._ _

__“The fealty of the Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West would be indeed welcome—” A hissing and clamor starts at the back of the room, but Jon silences them with a hand. “—Although our houses have never loved each other, winter has come which makes for strange bedfellows to keep the warmth. We have need for supplies and men…but how are you, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard who foreswore all lands and title with your oaths, offering these things to me now?”_ _

__“King Tommen relieved me of my duty before his death. I swore no new vows when his mother took the throne.”_ _

__There is an audible gasp throughout the room. Then a voice from the back of the hall yells, “Well, how can the Kingslayer swear fealty to a king! He has shown he has no honor!”_ _

__Jon silences the man with a wave of his hand. Brienne twitches on the dais behind Sansa and turns her bright eyes to his._ _

__“Jaime, tell them. It’s time to tell them what happened. Tell them what you told me.” Jon looks back and forth between the Maid and the Kingslayer, their eyes locked in silent communication. He notices something in Jaime’s expression shift slightly, although he can’t quite name it. Sansa, who has also keenly observing the wordless exchange can name the changes: some of the arrogance is replaced with longing, vulnerability. It’s an odd change in emotion and only lasts a moment. She also notes that Brienne did not give Jaime his title and that Jaime didn’t even register the oversight. They _are_ on familiar terms, then._ _

__After a moment and a deep breath, Jaime nods, breaking their gaze as he looks down, gathering his thoughts._ _

__“It’s true: I killed Aerys. I have never denied it, nor did I try to hide it. I could tell you a thing or two about what he did to Brandon and Rickard Stark because he blamed them for Rhaegar’s disappearance with Lyanna. I stood by like a proper, honorable kingsguard while one was strangled to death trying to save his father from being burned alive by wildfyre. Truly, not much honor in that at all. I always wondered why my prince did such a thing as kidnap a woman; it was out of his character.”_ _

__Jaime thinks a moment._ _

__“I did swear to protect my king. I just didn’t know I’d have to protect him while he decided to slaughter the undeserving or rape his wife. He ordered his pet pyromancers to burn Kings Landing with his secret caches of wildfyre instead of surrender the city to my father. He decided he would create his own funeral bier with the rubble of the Red Keep and the city, and light it with the burning bodies of his subjects. So I killed them them all: the pyromancers first and then I killed my king. I opened the gates to let the armies in and waited to see who would claim the throne.”_ _

__The silence is as thick and silent as falling snow. The room’s attention is completely on Jaime. Sansa, however, sneaks peeks at Brienne throughout Jaime’s speech, noting her expressions and those of the people around her. She sees that Brienne is the only person in the room not surprised by any of it. She has heard this story before. Interesting._ _

__Jaime continues. “What mattered more: my oath or the realm?” And Jaime’s eyes meet Snow’s, sharp green to sharp gray. “And now once again, I found my sovereign deciding to burn her people and destroy the city to protect her place on the throne, only this time,” his grin is a knife slicing his face, “It was my own dear, sweet sister. Former lover. Mother of my children.”_ _

__He pauses, lost in thought for a moment. “I swore no oaths to her, not even of fealty as I’d just missed her coronation when I returned from Riverrun and she was distracted with other things—a strange oversight for her, now that I think on it, as she always did love to have me on my knees.” He laughs bitterly. You know my history. I may not have them with me at the moment, but I _have_ fought alongside, bled with, and commanded the Lannister army many thousands strong. That’s more than my sister can say.” _ _

__Jon Snow no longer knows nothing: he has learned a few things. He knows the kind of loyalty a good battle commander can inspire and he knows he has need of such. As much as he wants to discount and distrust Lannister, he reads truth in his eyes. He may not like him, but he is sure he’s being straighter with him than Littlefinger has been thus far, whom his sister insists they still need. It certainly couldn’t hurt to have someone beholden to him who is familiar with Littlefinger’s habits at court, well-versed in the sort of game they play in Kings Landing, and a proven commander to boot (which Litterfinger himself cannot boast). If Lannister can deliver a few more thousand troops to garrison with the Knights of the Vale…even if the man isn’t playing him straight, it might be worth it to break Littlefinger’s monopoly on trained men which has been making him increasingly nervous._ _

__But how can he be sure that Lannister won’t betray him for Cersei? The man has admitted what they are to each other and while Lannister looks far leaner and less rich than a man who travels on a queen’s largesse, neither does he look the part of a spurned lover exactly, either._ _

__He needs to bind Lannister, quickly and without doubt. Normally, he’d pull Sansa aside and ask if she would be willing to marry for such a powerful alliance, but he can’t do that to her given all that she’s been through, let alone at this family’s hands—she was this man’s good-brother for a time and tortured by his son and twin. None of the ladies of his bannermen are eligible. (Lady Lyanna is a force unto herself and Jon decides this is not worth incurring her wrath asking her lest she be insulted.) Lannister’s oath won’t do on his own, not with the history, not even with this new information about his motives._ _

__Jaime can see the king thinking, weighing options, and discarding them. Jon decides to throw the problem back on Jaime, curious to hear what he’ll propose so he can take it to his small council for them to discuss._ _

__“Lannister,” Jon purposefully discards all titles. “You certainly have much to offer us if you speak true, but you must forgive me my skepticism. How can we ensure your loyalty is to this court, and not to your sister’s?” The hall is silent, and Jon lets it deepen. “To this court, not the court of the mother of your children?” A hissing breathes throughout the room._ _

__Jaime’s clear green gaze becomes a gimlet. “Because she let our last child die. She let Tommen die on the altar of her ambition,” he hisses and the words echo in the great room, the angry growl of a lion, “She didn’t love him more than she loved her power or her vengeance. She decided it was better to slaughter thousands, including our son’s wife and half the noble houses, if it meant she could revenge herself, and didn’t think about the cost. She wasn’t sorry. Not really.” He swallows, lost in his memories. “Not when I asked. I will swear fealty to you because she did what I killed the Mad King to prevent.”_ _

__His eyes are locked with Jon’s and turn stricken, which everyone can see. Jon, Sansa, Littlefinger, and the rest of the court are still shocked that he openly admits to his past relationship with Cersei and their children. He has claimed his son possibly for the first time in public. Brienne can only look at him, her heart full for him._ _

__Jon clears his throat, keeping Jaime’s gaze. “Well, Lannister, again I put it to you: what do you propose I do? You fought my half-brother and was his captive. You attacked my father and which led to his execution at your son’s order, who seized our family sword. And while Lady Brienne has insisted you had nothing to do with it, my step-mother and half-brother were slaughtered by the Freys and Lannisters in violation of guest right. Why should I believe _anything_ you say?” Jon stands up with all the righteous indignation of his sire, if a bit more spirit, Jaime thinks._ _

__“You say true, your grace. These things all happened and I will not deny them. I have always owned my sins,” he admits with a momentary sardonic grin to Brienne. “A peace offering: I present you the unfortunately named Widows Wail, forged from one half of Ice, your father’s greatsword.” Jaime lays it at Jon’s feet and it is clear to all that this is true Valyrian steel._ _

__Jon swallows, picks it up to examine it more closely. “And the other half, Lannister?” Jaime takes a breath a micro-look at Brienne who nods with her eyes._ _

__“Why, I gifted it to the Lady Brienne when I sent her to find your sisters, bring them home, and protect to fulfill with my oath to Lady Catelyn: Oathkeeper is the other sword.”_ _

__While Jon and Sansa know this as Brienne had already confessed it to them, no one else at court does. Littlefinger wears a particularly strange face at this news, which somehow escaped him. He noticed the golden lion hilt of Brienne’s sword. He knew Tywin had the sword reforged into two blades for the family, but never thought that Jaime Lannister would part with one and abscond with the other, let alone that both halves would find themselves in the north back in the hands of the Starks._ _

__“The return of our house blade, regardless the number of pieces, is worth something, Lannister,” Jon acknowledges. He is sure that Lannister can be of some very practical use, and sees how well Jaime works a very hostile room. He has come alone, which is both admirable and deplorable. It shows he’s willing to risk himself, but Jon needs men. He doesn’t trust Lannister, but neither does he distrust him—not any more than Littlefinger at least._ _

__“You’ll understand that I need something more solid given our histories. The sword is a beginning, but it is only that. What more do you propose?”_ _

__Jaime takes a breath. He didn’t really expect the sword to be enough, although it would have made things much easier. The king motions to Jaime that he might rise, which he does a with a little less grace than he might have even a few years ago after kneeling so long._ _

__Jaime gets his feet back under him, solid before making his gambit. “I propose a marriage to join our households, your grace.”_ _

__“Marriage! That’s rather bold given your current situation.” Jon was expecting this, but he doesn’t want to tip his hand to Lannister. He’s learned a few tricks since he died. He’s curious to hear whom Lannister proposes as it will tell him quite a bit about Lannister’s ambitions and perceptions of his position._ _

__“Indeed, your grace. I hold the Westerlands and house seat at your indulgence and forbearance. I would not trouble your sister, Lady Sansa,” he does an impeccable deep bow to her worthy of a high lady, “Seeing as she has already suffered being my good-sister when she wedded the best of us; given that did not end well, no fault of hers, I would not impose upon her further.” Sansa loathes him, but can appreciate his pretty speech and its dance of truth; she can already see the next steps in Jaime’s conversational gavotte._ _

__Sansa has grown quite dependent on Lady Brienne’s protection, and while Brienne is nearly as circumspect as a septa, she guessed what this man means to her. What has surprised her throughout this audience is that she begins to suspect that this is not a foolish, futile thing on Brienne’s part, despite the practiced lying Lannisters are known for. Jaime Lannister is careful and guarded, but there are tells visible to those who have had to learn the subtlest ones to survive. Seven know she had to learn his twin sister's tells or die. While they are not the same, neither are they so very different for this kind of work._ _

__Sansa has read Littlefinger also marking every one and suspects he is probably planning some sort of message to Queen Cersei. She makes a note to immediately revoke his rights to the rookery and to Stark messengers. She becomes distracted thinking about all the things she will have to do to stop him from sending word south. It’s a rather daunting problem, but not impossible for the Lady of Winterfell…especially one who learned at his knee. She is grateful Jon remembered to order all doors sealed throughout the audience. Her attention snaps back when Jaime starts speaking again, his dance continuing apace._ _

__“No, if she will have me, I propose marriage to Lady Brienne of Tarth, Lady Sansa’s sworn sword, formerly sworn to Lady Catelyn.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Funny that eight lines of lyrics turned into my longest chapter yet. It was warranted though, between the foundational song, last chapter, and what happens in the next and the one after. Hoping this chapter begins to make up for the unrelenting shoegazey angst train thus far! :rubs hands together evilly in anticipation: Next one's pretty long, too. Hope I don't mess 'em up!


	6. Marching Bands of Manhattan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime talks an awful lot to Brienne to make his case in front of the entire court to various reactions.
> 
> If this seems like a jump, you may have missed the previous (super long) update; for some reason, it didn’t refresh the the last updated date, so you may need to go back a chapter.

“No, if she will have me, I propose marriage to Lady Brienne of Tarth, Lady Sansa’s sworn sword, formerly sworn to Lady Catelyn.”

Brienne’s eyes snap to Jaime’s, face draining and audibly snapping her dropped jaw shut as soon as she registers his question and realizes she is gaping. Jaime holds her gaze, with perhaps the most beautiful, hopeful smile she’s ever seen on him…or anyone really. It contrasts remarkably with his rather anxious eyes. 

Sansa notes that Brienne is not the only one shocked by his words, at this tableau of who might still be the handsomest man in the Seven Kingdoms apparently truly courting its ugliest (and only) lady knight.

“J-- _Jaime_! –” Brienne sputters.

“Ah, my lady, I’ve missed your sparkling repartee,” Jaime winks, smiling fondly at her, putting _just_ a touch of seductive evil because he’s pretty sure he knows what it does to her and he loves being able to make her blush turn her face into one of his house colors. “But let me stop what I’m sure you’re about to say: I _am _in earnest,” and he drops the playful look to reveal his true emotions, completely serious. “From the beginning, Brienne, it’s always been truth between us, has it not?”__

__Brienne nods, eyes wide, wordless._ _

__“We started attacking each other with our most obviously damaging, ugly truths, and then switched them to subtler ones.” He has been slowly approaching her, never taking his eyes from hers, not stopping until he is in front of her at the bottom of the steps to the dais, looking up at her._ _

__No one else in the hall exists to them in this moment, and no one moves to interrupt._ _

__“And then when we could no longer wound with words, we shared our secret, painful truths.” Pause. “I would like to share some joyful ones together. Winter is here and we will need all the warmth we can find. All I know is every time we manage to meet again, I am glad. And every time I see you leave, I go cold.”_ _

__He cocks his head slightly to the side, considering. “You know, when I heard what Cersei had done to the Sept of Baelor, when I saw it, all I found myself reaching for you beside me because I knew you we were the only person in the world who would know exactly what this act would mean to me—Aerys, Tommen, the Sept and the small folk who lived around it—and as much as I know you rightfully hate her, you would still somehow find it in your noble heart to have sympathy for me because you know the different loves I bore her.” Another pause, shaking his head at the memory. “At the end of it all, in the rubble, the _stench_ of burnt bodies, the ashes…” _ _

__While everyone else is watching this play out for the sheer drama, others with rather more skin in the game are playing closer attention. Jon, Sansa, Baelish, and Tormund are cataloging every look, every movement between the two of them, albeit for different reasons._ _

__Jon is unsure how he feels about how this is unfolding. If nothing else, if Lannister doesn’t mean this, the man could be a world-class mummer. He tends to think the man is sincere, but he doesn’t know if this is being influenced by his own growing affection and gratitude to Lady Brienne. It would be easy enough to capture him in a contract, to put enough clauses in there and ensure there are just enough unimpeachable companions around him at all times—Tormund and a hand-picked group of his best fighters stationed with them, for example. But if he is sincere and can bring even a fraction of the resources of the west to bear, it would be worth it._ _

__Sansa too is torn. Unlike Jon, she is newer to learning how to work with (and use) a former enemy. (Baelish, at his peril, has not realized that his dear, sweet Lady Sansa has a half-dozen schemes in various states of readiness waiting on her word for his downfall.) She cannot forget that Ser Jaime killed Jory and the other Winterfell guardsmen in Kings Landing, that he captured her father, allowing him to be executed at the whim of his evil son, that she had to watch her father’s head roll. That Joffrey only existed at all because his hubris. But she too has become cautiously fond of Brienne and is watching her sworn sword’s understanding of the full purport of Ser Jaime’s confession slowly unfold with the timid grace of spring’s first buds’ bloom across her face, in her stance. She doubts Lady Brienne is even conscious of the near death grip she has on Oathkeeper’s hilt._ _

__Baelish is shocked to his core. He’d heard—and possibly even believed—the stories that Brienne was the Kingslayer’s whore. Baelish had simply thought Jaime grew tired of his sister’s capricious cunt and found himself a somewhat discreet (because unlikely) and more reliable camp follower. But he sees none of the tell tale signs of a liar in Lannister’s face. (The Lannisters aren’t quite as accomplished liars as they like to think they are, not to a true student of the human countenance.) This could upset the entire game board. It might not affect any of his endgames, but he will need to spend some time recalculating his moves._ _

__Tormund is gob-smacked. His rational self whispers, _She never encouraged you or seemed to want you to steal her,_ but the largest part of his self is rather gutted to see not just how she looks at this gilded southron pillock, but how the gilded southron pillock is looking back at her, like she is his world, Old Gods take him. Tormund knows he hasn’t got a chance. He determines he will watch her back and be ready to gut the man at his first sign of treachery. _ _

__There is no movement, no interruption, and so Jaime continues, seeing he’s made some progress but not won this battle with her yet._ _

__“You know, my lady, I understand if you are reticent. Most think me a man without honor.” He pauses, looks down for a moment, considering, then seizes her gaze again. “They may be right—I had nearly convinced myself that they were—but even knowing all my sins—and you’ve known them all, including the worst, since we met—you were the only person who believed I might have some honor left to me if I acted honorably.”_ _

__He huffs a laugh and smiles at her. “Do you remember what Lady Catelyn said to me as she remanded me into your custody, me mocking you? She said you were a finer knight than I would ever be, and oh, Brienne, she was _so very right._ ”_ _

__Another pause, but they continue to exchange…something…wordlessly. Neither could name it save that it signaled she was listening and he means every word._ _

__“I think some part of me must have known when I gave you Oathkeeper and charged to you to find and protect the Stark girls.” (Both of them are ignoring Sansa in the moment, despite mention of her because with her safe, it’s no longer about her.) “I cannot think of a better would-be betrothal gift for you than Valyrian steel, custom armor, a steed, and a squire. I only wish I’d given you more men for your quest,” his face twists in chagrin at his stupidity. “That said, I’ll also to offer a handful of Red Ronnet Connington’s teeth lying in the bear pit at Harrenhal as another token of my esteem.”_ _

__Brienne’s astonishing blue eyes grow wider, but still she says nothing. Jaime grins widely, delighted at her reaction, leaning closer. It’s a rather wolfish grin, a thought that almost takes her into a sea of giggles considering who he is and where they are, but she masters herself. Of course everyone at court is curious but he refuses to say any more on the matter in the larger company._ _

__He continues, a little smug. “They’ve been lying there many months now, but they say it’s the thought that counts,” he’s still grinning, but his turn serious. “And I was thinking of you even then.”_ _

__A pause. He continues, “I know you don’t need _me_ , but Tarth needs heirs. Coincidentally enough, so does Casterly Rock. Should you accept my hand, Brienne, our first-born would be heir to both, but our second would then take the Rock, if you like. We could raise them primarily on Tarth, if you want. Whatever you want. I will provide whatever support you deemed necessary and desirable. You need never wear a dress again. Or pink. Or Myrrish lace.” He smiles softly at a memory, eyes crinkling and warm as they hold hers. “You would wear and act exactly as you like and I will never gainsay you unless I truly think you might regret it later.”_ _

__He waits now, leans back a bit and lets the silence fill the room. He wants to know if she’ll say anything. The silence is an itch he wants to scratch, but he forces himself to stay quiet and it takes the full force of his will._ _

__“Ser…” she tries to begin but tapers off._ _

__“Ser? Brienne, we are beyond such titles, are we not?” He counters with a level gaze as powerful as his sword hand used to be, and as disarming._ _

__In his saner moments, he would realize how damning this could sound to those who cannot understand what they’ve been through but now he cannot care: he seeks to push his advantage, moving on the offensive because he realizes this may very well be the sparring match of his life—not _for_ his life, for he has never feared the Stranger’s embrace, but it will likely determine just what kind of life he has left to him: will he find whatever joy might be left to him, be forced to take the black and die on the Wall (a kind of living death, to his mind), or live as an exile in Essos or some other foreign land? He only knows that he desperately wants a future with Brienne, whatever might come after._ _

__Brienne rolls her eyes a bit at this, but she also takes a steadying breath—he recognizes it as the one she uses before engaging an opponent in earnest. “ _Jaime_ , you always did love the sound of your own voice and find silence difficult.” Thankfully, she wears a fond and not foul look. _ _

__This surprises a laugh unbidden from Sansa who instantly covers her mouth, eyes wide and gleeful, cutting the tension across the hall._ _

__It makes Brienne utter a soft laugh. She is glad to see her ever-more-calculating Lady Sansa find a moment of honest, irrepressible mirth. Brienne looks to her lady and her king, nodding down to where Jaime stands and both nod their permission. She descends the stairs to face him on the main floor, and he tilts his head up to meet her eyes. He loses his bravado as she gets closer and their roles are reversed: she is smiling and he is serious._ _

__Then they both turn serious, eyes locked._ _

__Brienne breaks it to turn to Lady Sansa and King Jon. They seem inclined to settle this in open court in front of witnesses. “My lieges, you have heard him. What would you have of me?”_ _

__Jon and Sansa exchange their own loaded look. Jon sees Sansa has become ruthless enough to accede: there are many useful possibilities for both of their agendas here. Jaime can’t read it, but he understands the unspoken language of siblings. He sees them reach an accord, whatever it is._ _

__“If the lady will have you, we will draw up the marriage contract. You may review, but there will be no room for negotiation. You will take it or you will take yourself from here immediately,” Jon says as imperiously as he knows how at Jaime._ _

__Jon’s expression softens somewhat as he looks down at Brienne. “Lady Brienne, you have proven yourself time and again a great friend of this house. You have sworn your service to my sister, (and here Sansa nods prettily) protecting her when I could not. I am grateful. Accept or reject this man according to your own desire: we will not gainsay you either way. Your person will always be welcome in the north.”_ _

__Jon has made it clear that Jaime will only be tolerated for Brienne’s sake, regardless what assets he might bring to the war table._ _

__Given her past experiences with the matter of betrothal, Brienne had thought that there would be more negotiations up front, more time to think and consider and choose. Her eyes are wide and just a touch wild as she quickly rakes the dais trying to gauge the different expressions—who looks pleased, who looks worried, who doesn’t seem to care. Alas, this is _not_ one of her skills. See does manage to register Tormund’s sad countenance, Baelish’s blank but intense look, Lady Sansa’s small careful smile that means nothing because it’s the one she wears for all occasions, and King Jon’s forthright gaze. It’s no help: she really _will_ have to decide this for herself. _ _

___Who would have thought?_ she wonders. _What would Renly or Loras or Hunt or the rest of those assholes say now?_ I _don’t know what to say._ She tries to seize on an answer within herself. She knows what she _wants_ to say, but it terrifies her lest her heart lead her wrong._ _

__Warrior that she is, she instinctively turns towards the source of her terror and finds him looking equally terrified as he gazes back through all the fondness writ so large across his face that even _she_ can read it._ _

___He always did love completely, with his whole self,_ she thinks, she says in her expression as best she can. She will not speak this, for truly, this is a private conversation between the two of them. He has done horrible things for love, she considers. What if he did equally wonderful things for love? _ _

__He reads her own thoughts on her face and his face turns hopeful, turning to her like a sunflower with the dawn._ _

__“My lady? What will you?” He grinds out. Slaying Aerys was an easy decision, he realizes in retrospect. The Smiling Knight was nothing. Turning his back on Cersei was inevitable and right. But this?_ _

__She feels like she is stepping off a battlement, like she is diving off an unfamiliar sea cliff._ _

__She soothes his fevered eyes with her cool sapphire gaze._ _

__“Yes. Yes, I will marry you, Ser Jaime.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My only excuse for this highly indulgent series of Jaime monologues is that the man _does_ like to run his mouth, right? There will be a bit of delay to the next installments because my life is going to become non-fic friendly for the next few days.


	7. Marching Bands of Manhattan: Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some aftermath between Jaime and Brienne. 
> 
> WARNING: SO MUCH FLUFF. Fluff without plot. If you don’t have a taste for fluff, you can skip this and wait for the next update which will be also be a bit fluffy, but at least will have some plot…I think.]

“Yes. Yes, I will marry you, Ser Jaime.”

Their eyes tear up together as they both think on how they got here from their first meeting—him caged, filthy, and bitter; she prejudiced and contemptuous—instinctively embracing and shattering the hushed silence of the hall as he grunts against the impact of her armor against his lack thereof. Their nostalgic turn instantly turns to laughter their eyes holding again, and that is how they remember that moment ever after: that they were both laughing in each other’s arms, safe, warm, and being utterly confident in their love.

Then Jaime steps back to take her hand in his, giving her a flawless courtly bow, all the while still smiling up into her eyes. He kisses her hand and luxuriates in her blush. Then he straightens and still holding her hand, it’s a bit of a wrench to turn to face King Jon.

“Your grace, you said you would arrange the marriage contract?” 

“Yes. I shall have it delivered to you on the morrow. In the meantime, we shall arrange rooms for Ser Jaime tonight and you shall sit at the high table with your betrothed.” Jon’s look is closed, his voice flat. He turns to Sansa. “My lady, I believe we have much to discuss.”

“Your Grace, a moment.” She says, then whispers in Jon’s ear and he nods impassively. He summons a guard and maidservant and says something to each. The guard leaves immediately.

He turns to Ser Davos, “Join us in my solar.” 

Littlefinger is poised to be asked and accept, but he isn’t. Given that it is just the king’s half-sister and Hand, he is not officially snubbed. Tormund is known to be in quite close council with the king, after all, and he has not been called. Still, he mislikes not being able to listen, to help set the terms, to ferret out what Jon and Sansa want from the Kingslayer in return for giving him asylum. 

As Jon stands, he addresses the room. “It seems Ser Jaime will likely to be amenable to our terms for his marriage to Lady Brienne of Tarth. As she is an honored member of this household and boon companion to Lady Sansa, we will of course hold a feast to celebrate their marriage, albeit one tempered by the necessities of facing a long winter.” 

There are cheers from the crowd. 

Jon pauses, and continues. “As we are also facing a great battle and both bride and groom are known for their skill at arms, we will also hold a melee so that those who would prove their mettle for the coming war might prove themselves and learn gentler lessons about battle than what they will face at the hands of the Others. In honor of Lady Brienne, lady fighters are welcome to enter.” He grins wolfishly. This will give his commanders a chance to note how their forces fight outside the training yard. Ultimately, Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne will be commanders (co-commanders, he thinks), and he wants them to see what they’ll be working with. 

With this, he stands followed by Sansa and Davos and they sweep out. Littlefinger continues watching Brienne and Jaime. Tormund gives them a long considering glance, then also leaves the great hall and walks towards the godswood.

The room dissolves into a cacophony of voices, some laughing, some aghast, some nearly shouting.

Jaime is unsure what to do next: his last visit to Winterfell was under rather different circumstances. In truth, he wasn’t sure he’d get this far and hadn’t thought ahead any further than to win Brienne’s hand (which is gratified and comforted to realize is still in his). He turns to her. “My lady,” and he leans in close and drops his voice, “Soon to truly be _my_ lady,” his smile turning triumphant, trying to convey the depth of his joy at this moment to her with his gaze. “What shall we do now?”

Ever practical (and bashful), she instinctively retorts, “I rather think you want a bath that involves soap,” Brienne’s nose scrunches and she quietly files away being able to tease him about his rather ripe proposal later. 

Jaime considers. He’d done the best he could in the stream, but knows there’s a limit to what frigid water alone can do and shrugs his acquiescence. “Anything for you, my lady,” he smiles because he can’t stop smiling. “Let’s find a serving wench,” his smile turns evil.

Brienne rolls her eyes, refusing to rise to his bait. “I will find one for you but then I must see to my duties.”

Jaime sighs, mock-wounded. “Always so dutiful.” His smile sharpens and his gaze darkens. “Will you be such a dutiful wife? I can only imagine so given the seriousness with which I happen to know you take your oaths,” he steps closer.

“ _BATH_ ,” Brienne commands as best she can, but there’s a small quaver in her voice at his look and proximity as she pushes him away. She _definitely _isn’t going tell him that even overripe, he smells like home to her. (She is surprised that she recognized his scent at all.) In truth, she still hasn’t processed that Jaime definitely proposed in front of her current known world and she definitely accepted. It’s not real yet.__

__Having been a resident of Winterfell and Lady Sansa’s sworn sword, she knows the household staff and waves over a mid-level servant she recognizes. “Sylla, has Lady Sansa assigned quarters to Ser Jaime yet?”_ _

__Sylla smiles and bobs a curtsey, “Yes, my lady. I will show you the way.” She leads on with a look over her shoulder at Brienne that she can’t quite place aside from it being friendly. Part of Brienne wonders about the news network servants must have given how quickly everything happened, but she knows better than to ask—she doesn’t know any of them well enough to presume. Sylla leads them to a generous room in the guesthouse and bobs another curtsey. Not a suite, but one of the larger single rooms. It’s a statement of a kind: he is on probation, but not in purgatory._ _

__“If I might arrange for a bath?” He asks with charm, but not laying it on too thick—he is a promised man, after all. (Not to mention that one, he’s never been that kind of nobleman and two, his beloved is beside him and could lay him flat if she really wanted to—a fact that he finds curiously…invigorating.)_ _

__“Of course, milord.”_ _

__“If someone would see to his clothes as well, please,” Brienne adds. She pauses then adds, “If there isn’t anything suitable to be had, you can take some from my room.” Sylla bobs a curtsey in acknowledgement (and no reaction—she’s a very good upper servant), disappearing down the hall._ _

__“I will leave you then, Jaime. I will need to wait upon Lady Sansa once she, King Jon, and Ser Davos have concluded their council.”_ _

__“Their council about our marriage, Brienne,” Jaime reminds her. “I might be feeling a little weak and I’d hate to be the first Lannister to die in his bath,” he wheedles. He lunges forward to whisper in her ear, “And I’ve thought so very much about the last time we bathed together.”_ _

__Brienne isn’t having it at all. She gently pushes him into the room. “We will see each other at the evening meal,” she says firmly but then softens a degree. “I’m sure you are tired given how you must have traveled to get here.”_ _

__Jaime sighs, “Three inns between here and Kings Landing, and no feather beds. Only for my lady. My _betrothed, _” He uses the excuse to step back into her space and seize her hand, moving his face towards her.___ _

____Brienne, however, is younger, better fed, and far more rested, so she dodges him with alacrity. She is glad to have the excuse of her maidenly honor to keep space between them. Part of her is also glad to know that she will soon not have this excuse, and it absolutely terrifies her. It’s an agitating contradiction she will turn over in her mind when she takes her guard post outside King Jon’s solar, a pearl of thought for later._ _ _ _

____“I will see you soon, Jaime,” she smiles a (left) arm’s length from him._ _ _ _

____He grins back. “I would say you can’t blame a man for trying, but I know you absolutely would,” he laughs but then they both remember why she more than most maids actually would and his expression turns gentle, his heart filling. “Brienne…”_ _ _ _

____“Hush. I will see you soon.”_ _ _ _

____“I will count the moments.”_ _ _ _

____“Concentrate on counting the soap bubbles,” she gives his wry grin back to him and pushes a single finger gently against his sternum so he falls back into his chamber._ _ _ _

____He takes advantage of the movement to seize her hand, kissing it while capturing her eyes, and then so softly releasing it. She takes a step back, face flushing the rose of her own house colors; then she turns on her heel and strides off._ _ _ _

____When Jaime closes the door, he leans against it a moment; the taste of her knuckles is bright on his lips._ _ _ _

____\--_ _ _ _

Normally standing guard is mind numbing, but she is grateful to have the excuse to leave Jaime for a moment, to be silent and undisturbed for a while. She isn’t the most confident political mind, but she is fairly sure it will take King Jon, Lady Sansa, and Ser Davos quite while to agree upon her marriage contract, which is good: she needs time to mull things over. 

She wonders what her father will think, and whether King Jon or Lady Sansa will send the raven…or if she must…and if so, how shall she will word the message? 

_Dear Father, I am marrying the Kingslayer, Ser Jaime Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, lately of the kingsguard, in order to help unite the kingdoms under a new, better monarch than that murderous [unintelligible] Queen Cersei, his sister and former lover. We also need his troops and resources to help us win an impossible battle against ice monsters at the Wall. It’s not so bad as I happen to love him quite a lot._

_Apparently he loves me too, because he decided to choose me over ~~that bitch~~ Cersei. He made rather a long speech about it in front of King Jon’s entire court, but then again, he does love the sound of his own voice. But that’s fine because it means he fills in the awkward pauses I leave. And I know he means it because he’s always told me the truth, even if it meant telling me awful things about me, himself, about the world. He has really done some awful things for love, but he doesn’t deny them; he’s honest about everything, the bad and the good. We trust each other._

__Ser Jaime gave me a lovely Valyrian sword and commissioned custom armor for me when the set you gave me got stolen after he and I were both kidnapped. Remember that ransom demand for sapphires? He has defended my honor many times since and rescued me from a bear, even after losing his sword hand._ _

_We will be fighting at the Wall soon, so I can’t say I wish you were here, but I do wish you could be here for my wedding to see me happy, to see us happy together. After Ronnet Connington (Jaime knocked his teeth out when he insulted me to his face some months ago) and Ser Humfrey, I never thought to find this. And at least we all know he is capable of siring heirs, which is good because both Tarth and Casterly Rock will need ones. Despite what you might have heard, I still remain ~~innocent~~ ~~ignorant~~ lacking of first hand knowledge in this area. There is a septa here who has taken it upon herself to speak with me on the eve of our marriage, even if there is no sept; we will be married in the sight of the Old Gods. But then, we fight old enemies, so perhaps it is fitting._

_Your loving daughter,  
Brienne_

She laughs at herself and it might have a touch of hysteria. It’s just so much to take in. The other guard, a man whose name she can’t recall, side eyes her, but doesn’t say anything. Brienne shakes her head at herself and resumes a more dignified expression and solid stance as she waits for the door to open and her doom to be sealed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had such a remarkably shitty week, and it looks like in response, I wrote some of the fluffiest fluff I’ve ever fluffed. (The last two updates were fluffy for plot reasons. There’s no excuse for this chapter than pure self-indulgent pap.)


	8. Marching Bands of Manhattan: Second Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More aftermath: Jon, Sansa, and Davos nail down the marriage contract. The Evenstar commeth.

Lord Selwyn sends a raven back immediately giving probationary consent and saying he’s on his way, so the wedding is postponed out of respect. The voyage from Tarth to White Harbor, then overland to Winterfell is no small distance. Everyone is a little relieved to have the respite. (Although considering Lord Selwyn is on his way and what he knows of his beloved daughter? Ser Jaime is not craven and is fully resolute, but he might be a tad apprehensive because he is not stupid.)

Pod arrives back from his patrol to learn that not only has Ser Jaime come to Winterfell, his lady and Ser Jaime are now betrothed and he is both bewildered and happy. Ser Jaime always _did_ have a bit of a soft spot for his Ser My Lady…and perhaps a hard one as well, if Bronn is to be believed, but how can Bronn’s crass jokes stand in the face of a love out of a song or his lady’s circumspectness? Regardless, he notices that his lady still blushes although Ser’s been nothing but proper. 

The wait for the Evenstar ends up not being of consequence because it takes Jon, Sansa, and Davos nearly as long to hash out the terms of the contract as it does for him to arrive at Winterfell.

First, Jon takes Jaime to the Wall and beyond to see for himself the threat. Tormund is glad to play guide to this soft southron pillock, ready to see the fear and weakness in him so that he can challenge him for Brienne’s hand, since that’s how these people apparently do it and he’s happy to learn her customs. Unfortunately for Tormund, Jaime travels rough without complaint and asks shrewd questions of them both throughout the journey. When they encounter wights, Jaime proves his ability with a sword (King Jon has allowed him to carry Widow’s Wail for the time being) and directing the less able soldiers in the party when Jon and Tormund are otherwise engaged. He also begins to understand the gravity of the situation they’re dealing with and sees just why Jon was even willing to hear him out in the first place.

Regarding fealty, Sansa wants Jaime to bend the knee to Jon as King of the Seven Kingdoms. Jon feels he has no claim to the Iron Throne—indeed, he didn’t even want to be King in the North—and only wants sworn service in the war to come against the others; should they all survive, in the long term, he would be content with being sword allies; it would be something to have the north, the west, and a small but respected and strategic house in the east united when selecting the next monarch. But in the short term, to have the Lord of the Westerlands supporting the war of winter would mean something to the men and other nobles. Davos is torn on the issue: while he is wary of Lannisters having lost so many of his sons in the Battle of the Blackwater, he also knows that Jon does not really want the realm—it’s one of the reasons Davos follows him: the lad just wants to keep the Others at bay. He has also come to know Lady Brienne a little, and while it is difficult in this circumstance, suggests that they trust her to know Ser Jaime’s true character. In compromise, Davos recommends that they outline specific deliverables that will prove Ser Jaime’s loyalty to King Jon throughout this war with codicils that activate in peacetime should they all survive. Jon agrees more readily than Sansa, but there is a consensus.

Next, there is the issue of resources. As much as they would like Ser Jaime to bring all that Casterly Rock and the Westerlands to bear, they also know that this may simply not be possible given that his sister currently holds the throne. Sansa briefly wonders at the possibility of simply having Cersei removed—perhaps Ser Jaime could hire the Faceless Men to take care of the issue. She has to admit this is more a pretty thought than a feasible course of action and so begins to spin what he could do on his own power and name. She suggests quantities of goods sent north under cover of trade. Getting goods by sea from Lannisport seems unlikely what with the current state in the Iron Islands, but Ser Jaime’s name should be enough to clear a trade caravan past the Twins and out of Frey territory. Sansa continues that the trade caravan’s guards could be composed of an abundance of disguised Lannister troops. While his bannermen might not answer his call, those under his direct authority must, and he does command quite a force. Jon jumps in noting that if he’s half the battle commander that he’s heard, some more will brave this out of loyalty. Davos adds that those who need a bit more motivation will come on the understanding that Lannisters pay their debts. It is settled.

Jon then suggests that in the upcoming battle, Jaime may be called upon as a battle commander, but he will do so at the sufferance of himself and consider Lady Brienne his co-commander until instructed otherwise. Jon knows you can truly only have one commander, and he would make Lady Brienne so except she has never fought in a war. As part of his duties, Jaime will teach Brienne the art of command. (Jon never had much of the luxury of being a student himself, but he sees the seed in Brienne and wants to encourage it. He knows he needs more commanders than he currently has. While the Kingslayer is a man who has charisma and experience enough to encourage his soldiers, Jon knows Brienne’s honor, fortitude, and forthrightness could command an equal respect. He will need them both.) 

With martial matters addressed, it is time to think about the other aspects of Ser Jaime’s marriage to Lady Brienne.

Sansa argues that any children ought to be Brienne’s heirs primarily as Jaime’s own claim is somewhat dubious at the moment, that the war against winter must be won before they might be seen as heirs to the Westerlands and Casterly Rock and if such a thing happened, surely King Jon would have the Iron Throne. (Sansa would love dearly love to strip him of his house and seat, but it would set an unhelpful precedent.) In this case, even a man such as the Kingslayer, if he delivered on the other points of the marriage contract and still had Lady Brienne’s regard, would have shown sufficient loyalty to warrant regaining his seat. Jon and Davos both agree.

Sansa then puts forth that the contract should also address ensuring Brienne’s autonomy: that she should behave and dress as she sees fit with no interference from Ser Jaime. Again, all agree.

Jaime will carry Widow’s Wail until his death or the end of the war seeing as there is no one else in their family to carry it: either occasion will trigger its return to House Stark. 

They call Jaime and Brienne into the solar in a private audience to read the terms.

Jaime accepts without quibble: he, as Lord of the Westerlands and Casterly Rock, will swear fealty to Jon in open court for the duration of the war against the Others in service of defending the whole of the Seven Kingdoms and in keeping with the tradition of each kingdom supporting the Night’s Watch. He will send so many wagons of various goods north under armed guard who will join the fight; he will command his own army to come north and entreaty those bannermen whom he trusts to do the same, with Brienne to be his co-commander. Their heirs will be Tarth’s until the war at the Wall is done, then to be re-negotiated depending upon the state of the realm. Brienne shall behave as she sees fit. They will wait until her father’s arrival for any additional codicils that he may require before the wedding.

Jaime and Brienne share a quiet smile, bow, and leave when dismissed. Jon and Sansa consider them as they go while Davos thinks about his Marya, feels how much he misses her.

\--

In the days between Jaime’s acceptance of the King’s marriage contract stipulations and the Evenstar’s arrival, he is very correct with Brienne while they are in public—so much so that she recognizes it as a jape in itself—not one directed at her, but at noble life; it makes her smile inwardly as she rolls her eyes outwardly at his practiced courtly manners and gallantry because she recognizes this for the joke between themselves and the world: that despite the doubts all around, he actually _is_ chivalrous with her, because he means every word, gesture, and look.

He always insists on leading her into the great hall for meals on his right arm. (It makes _him_ smile inwardly because she has always treated it as natural, even when he’d first lost it.) Sansa has kindly acceded to seating Brienne on Jaime’s right so she can assist him with his meat when needed (Sansa’s not petty; she will enact her revenge in other ways if necessary). He always escorts her from the hall with a bow and allowed kiss of her knuckles, green eyes burning into hers with a wicked grin. It is well known throughout Winterfell that Lady Brienne has King Jon’s and Lady Sansa’s regard, so any spiteful thoughts or observations are kept to quiet whispers.

Those in the training yards who manage to catch them sparring get glimpses of yet another dimension of their relationship. While Jaime is clearly the more confident of the two in noble company, Brienne outmatches him when sparring. He can hold his own against most opponents, but his betrothed is the best fighter at Winterfell and Jaime couldn’t be prouder. They move together easily with swords in hand, and are completely at ease when resting. He is gratified to see that the men (mostly) listen to her, and is amused to see that she has an enforcer in the tall wildling, Tormund. (Had he not already had her hand…as it were, he might have been worried there because it is clear that the man has feelings for Brienne.) If he tends to clap Pod about the shoulders more than he might normally to establish his bona fides with Brienne’s squire in front of the wildling, well, he’s just catching up, right?

Knowing he is new, Jaime keeps back to begin with, but Brienne slowly gets the others acclimated to Jaime, asking him to observe and offer suggestions with the more advanced students as they fight her or Tormund. She, Tormund, and Jaime begin to sketch out a training regime including battle simulations and tactics for the men, taking the best practices of both Westerosi and the Free Folk, beginning to think through how each group might support the other.

And so the days pass.

Brienne is in the yard reviewing the day’s work with Jaime and Tormund, Pod attending, when Lord Selwyn arrives. King Jon summons them to come with him to meet the man. They follow him, Lady Sansa, carrying the platter of bread and salt, Ser Davos, and Littlefinger to the East Gate and receive him. 

He is much older than Brienne remembers, but unmistakable and still tall and strong. Their eyes shine, two sets of sapphire blue beams. Then King Jon formally welcomes him to Winterfell, he takes the bread and salt from Lady Sansa, all the necessary words and introductions are said, and finally they are free to run to each other and embrace. It has been so long since Brienne felt small, felt like a child but it’s so easy in her father’s arms. “Father,” she breathes. 

He kisses the top of her head, unable to speak. He thinks about her as a baby, fierce tiny fists that refused to let go of his finger, of a little girl who refused to let go of her weapons, of a young woman who refused to marry men who despised her, a young woman who refused to die a spinster at her father’s hearth. Here he finds her in the company of kings, great ladies, and lords set to marry the infamous Lord of Casterly Rock—apparently for love of all things. It is both remarkable and, if he didn’t love her so much, inconceivable.

They hold each other for a long moment that is still not long enough before they break apart to continue the courtesies.

While she’s known he was coming, it seems unreal to her to see her father here in Winterfell. For him to meet Jaime. For her to get _married_. 

Brienne presents Jaime first since he is her betrothed. While she is capable of looking at him with clear eyes, she makes an effort to really see him as her father might. Jaime too looks older than when they first met—was it really just two years ago or so? His scars, build, and bearing show him to be battle tested. His manners are flawless when he wants them to be and she can see him making his best sincere effort—he is not using any of the sardonic bravado he used on King Jon. He is still beautiful, his hair gold and the silver that has begun shining in his short beard only serves to provide a rich contrast and strengthen his air of authority. And his eyes lose their hardness and brighten with love when he looks on her.

Jaime gives the appropriate bow, a neutral expression on his face. “Lord Selwyn, it is an honor to meet you. Lady Brienne has spoken of you often and fondly. I am glad that you have arrived safely and that we finally have the chance to meet and get to know one another.”

She can see her father considering him with a long, closed look. (Brienne has long been annoyed that while she inherited her father’s build, eyes, and skill with a weapon that she couldn’t also manage to take after his ability to mask his emotions.) “Ser Jaime,” Selwyn nods. “We must speak.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

“Father,” Brienne cuts in, “May I also introduce Podrick Payne, my squire. He has done much since he entered into my service when I left King’s Landing to search for Lady Sansa. He has been a worthy, noble squire and now serves in Winterfell’s household.”

Pod blushes like his Ser My Lady at her praise and does his best bow in sincere imitation of Ser Jaime’s courtly manners. “My lord, it is an honor to meet Ser—my lady’s sire.”

Selwyn is a bit bemused at this scrawny, but earnest boy in his Brienne’s service as a squire. _Of_ course _she has a squire who is more puppy than fighter,_ he thinks. _But then, for all the boy’s a Payne and not a Clegane, hounds are loyal and this boy clearly worships his daughter and he will welcome him for that alone. Another unlikely man having pledged her his sword, following her in her wake. Perhaps it will mean something to kin of the old kings’ executioner at her side? ___

__Sansa smirks internally at watching the Kingslayer swallow hard but square his shoulders at his soon-to-be good-father’s…request. Arranging her expression into a warm but oblivious one, she says, “Lord Selwyn, I would be happy to lend you my solar so that you and Ser Jaime might get acquainted. I am sure you have _much_ to discuss. I will see to it that you are not disturbed. Please allow me to show you the way.”_ _

__Selwyn bows in gratitude and offers his arm, which Sansa takes as they sweep off, not looking back to see if Jaime follows. Brienne sneaks a squeeze of his hand and points with her chin toward the retreating pair for Jaime to follow, smiling softly. He gives her a wide-eyed look of apprehension for just a split second before he strides off as quickly as he can with dignity to catch up with them wearing what might be a Lannister-patented look of unconcern._ _

__Tormund and Littlefinger are both idly wondering about Jaime’s chance of coming out of that conversation intact given the size and fitness of her sire and rumors about his daughter’s honor, albeit for different reasons…and Davos is still thinking on Marya before he and the king go back about their business, resolving to write her a letter this evening._ _

__\---_ _

__When Jaime knocks on her chamber door to escort her to the evening meal, he looks a little less shiny and maybe a couple of years older. When she looks at him with concern and an unspoken question in her eyes, he smiles, takes her hand and kisses it—this time, free of all the posturing and performance he’s used in the past. Then he simply holds on and draws her close, into an embrace._ _

___”So?!_ she asks._ _

__He takes a deep breath. “We’re getting married. The contract stands as written. He brought your maiden cloak.”_ _

__She steps back to look into his eyes, trying to read them. “Truly?”_ _

__“Truly,” his smile deepens and his hand caresses her face._ _

__She has been fighting the near instinctual, reflexive urge to drop such kisses and caresses on him for so very long, but with his declaration, with her father’s consent, the marriage contract settled, she has no more excuses. She can’t be craven…and she wants to so badly. She leans forward and kisses him softly on the mouth. It is their first time and he leans into it, intensifying it, transforming a floating ember from a summer campfire into a strong blaze that flares up ready to defy winter’s cold._ _

__They step back after breaking for air, wonder and heat writ large in both their eyes. “Come, my lady. Let me take to you dinner before I make _you_ my dinner. I’d hate to have finally gotten your father’s consent only to dishonor us both less than ten minutes later,” he grins._ _

__This time, they enter the great hall hand in hand._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, we ended up hanging out in this song for a while! …It might be my favorite from the album so I don’t mind, but it’s also still the most narratively relevant. 
> 
> I’d originally conceived this as a series of separate but related vignettes, but I’ve fallen down a rabbit hole and because previously said shitty week, I guess I’m being especially self-indulgent. I will probably get back to the related vignette approach soon, but for the moment, am building this bit out because I’m having too much fun at the moment not to.


	9. Where Soul Meets Body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody loves a wedding, right?

Brienne wakes up just before the sun. Next to her shining blue armor, she sees her new richly embroidered surcoat courtesy of Lady Sansa that marries her natal and new house colors and realizes it is her wedding day. That she has a surcoat at all makes this realization catch her breath: it’s really happening.

It’s _really happening._

Her heart seizes for a moment, but she takes a deep breath and forces herself to get up and face the dawn in her shift. She will not be craven. She has no _need_ to feel afraid, she tells herself. She recalls Jaime in the great hall declaiming his love for her in front of nearly everyone who matters, his steadily burning eyes on hers, setting fire to her doubts. 

It’s true he has more to lose here than she does now, but it’s also true he has never lied to her. His eyes were open, as were hers. His heart was open, as was hers. Everything she has ever done that was worth anything required a leap of faith. This is just another, and one that could ensure the survival of her house. But if she’s honest with herself, it’s yet another one she’s making just for herself because she wants to believe it. She wants to believe he means it.

She takes another breath from her core and opens the curtains to bathe in the sun’s light.

\---

Jaime snorts himself awake feeling sore and groggy. He spent all night polishing his armor and sharpening his blade and finds himself slumped over uncomfortable. Shaking his head, he stretches and feels every one of his years—perhaps a few more from his conscience weighing him down. He rolls his neck and opens the curtains to watch the sun break the horizon and he thinks that this might be the last time he witnesses dawn alone, that he might not awake alone for a while. It makes him think of those times he did and it hurt. His heart leaps to think of her snoring mightily (because she does—they’ve traveled enough together for him to know exactly what he’s getting into sleep-wise) and it makes him laugh out loud and welcome the new day because this time tomorrow, he can nudge her or tickle her or kiss her into wakefulness enough to silence her. And that might lead to… 

He hasn’t let himself think too much on what else since he left King’s Landing because if his hopes hadn’t panned out, it would have been too painful to entertain.

He takes a deep breath looking at the mountains surrounding Winterfell cloaked in the dawn’s golden light and allows himself a smile.

\---

Her wedding day is nothing like she ever imagined. She enters the godswood on the arm of her father dressed as a knight, a Valyrian sword at her side. A handsome knight waits for her smiling, eager, his heart in his eyes and a king waits to join them.

The rest of the ceremony goes on as expected. Jon has Jaime, Selwyn, and Brienne identify themselves and although her gaze is warm, Jaime’s heart is in his mouth when Jon asks Brienne if she will have Jaime. She nods, tries to speak, has to clear her throat first before a low but firm “yes” fills the godswood.

When her father takes her maiden cloak that her husband might replace it, Jaime whispers in her ear as she helps him fasten the clasp. She takes her maiden cloak back from her father and fastens it around her husband’s shoulders, his green eyes nearly golden with mirth, ignoring the surprised murmurs around them. Both of them have spent their lives defying expectations and so why should their marriage ceremony not also do so if their choices make sense to them? King Jon is unfazed and nods to himself, as do Lady Sansa and Podrick; this choice makes much sense to them.

They kiss, and if it’s a little too long or too deep, no one except perhaps Lord Selwyn, Lord Baelish, Tormund, and if she admits it to herself, Lady Sansa, begrudges them…albeit all for very different reasons. 

The northern tradition is that the groom carries the bride to the feast which Brienne knows, but has already thought of a way they might work around it given their other subversions of the ritual but Jaime leans in and whispers close and wickedly in her rapidly reddening ear, “I’m strong enough,” which makes her expel a surprised laugh for a moment in which he hefts her up over his shoulder, armor and all. He won’t lie: he’s not as young as he used to be and is glad the great hall isn’t far from the godswood, but he’s insistent in carrying her to their feast. He is so glad to hold her in front of all: let them all know he loves her and will carry her as often and as far as she will let him.

\---

King Jon and Lady Sansa have sat them both at the high table along with Lord Selwyn and Lord Baelish for the occasion. The former is dictated by custom, but the latter by politics and Sansa’s own curiosity at what such strange dinner companions on such an occasion might surface. She doesn’t expect Littlefinger to slip much, but she thinks he might incite Lannister or Lord Selwyn to drop something interesting. 

Lannister sweeps in with Brienne blushing brightly to a loud roar of approval. This gesture is something the Free Folk can understand and appreciate. They take their seats and the feast begins.

The meal is uneventful aside from Lannister’s wide smiles and Brienne’s smaller, shyer ones. A couple of times, Littlefinger tries to bait Lannister who manages to purposefully misunderstand Baelish’s intentions. Selwyn has seen them interact enough to know that he didn’t lie to him when he confessed his love for his daughter so he isn’t surprised per se, but he is still coming to terms that she has fallen in love with the Kingslayer who has turned his back on his sister who was also his queen and lover—and perhaps his house—to fight at Brienne’s side. He thinks it will make a better song than “The Rains of Castamere”—it is certainly a more unlikely tale. 

After the cake is eaten, Selwyn stands up to do his duty and toast the couple. “Ser Jaime, when we first met, you told me it had always been truth between you and my daughter and that you meant to be as frank with me; I will return the favor. When I received Brienne’s raven, I was overjoyed to learn of her betrothal and appalled when I learned with whom she would be joining. However I reflected my own attempts to find her a suitable husband were not successful and I’ve always trusted her to know what’s best for her. I was afraid she had been coerced through threat of rumor or blackmail or misplaced sense of duty and so needed to see what this was for myself.”

Selwyn pauses, considering, and enjoying the bland court-ready expression on Jaime’s face, noticing that he’s fidgeting with his golden hand, which Brienne subtly covers with her own to still his fingers.

Selwyn continues. “But I was right to trust to Brienne’s good judgment: I arrived to find her in a place of honor training troops for the King in the North,” and here Selwyn bows to King Jon, “In quality armor, wielding a sword the likes of which I have never seen. What is more, I found her confident and smiling. I was surprised to find you honest with me. I cannot be glad of your past, but seeing my daughter so happy and with someone who understands her worth, I cannot but be glad to see you wed. Long life to you both, and many children.” He raises his cup as does the rest of the room and a cheer erupts.

King Jon now stands. “Lady Brienne, your service to House Stark is exemplary, first having saved my half-sister Lady Sansa, and since in strengthening our forces for the battle to come. It gladdens my heart that before the death we face, we have an opportunity to remind ourselves of life and love: what we fight to protect. Few are as deserving of finding joy in this dark hour than you, my lady.”

“Ser Jaime, it is a credit to your sense of duty to the kingdom that you have cut ties with one you held dear and risk losing your claim to one of the mightiest houses in Westeros. It is an even greater credit to you that you sought the hand of Lady Brienne. May the union of these noble houses of East and West, joining with the forces of the Vale, the North, and the Free Folk be an omen of peace and concord as we prepare to defend the land. May your arms stay strong, your hearts stay light, and your love grow.” Again everyone raises their cups and cheer the happy couple.

It is the moment that Brienne has been both longing for and dreading in equal measure. She knows there will be no bedding ceremony—this had been agreed upon by all beforehand—but to leave with Jaime in full view of everyone…and them all knowing what they were going to do?

Jaime steals a look at Brienne and sees her blushing the deepest crimson he’s ever seen on her before and it makes him smile. It starts with a tinge of seductive evil, but softens when he sees the near panic in her eyes. Best to get out of there.

“Lady wife?” He grins, standing and offers her his right arm. It’s the first time he’s called her wife, and he cherishes the feel of the words on his tongue. 

She rises, taking a deep breath and takes his arm. “If you’ll pardon us, your grace, we will retire for the evening.”

King Jon nods, and Jaime and Brienne bow to him, to Lady Sansa, and to Lord Selwyn before striding out the doors to applause, hoots, and hollers. Before she knows it, she finds themselves outside of her chambers-- _their_ chambers now—and face each other. 

Jaime can see her trembling, so he pauses a moment to cup her face and place a gentle kiss on her lips. “Shall we?” She swallows and nods and opens the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Life has been very non-fic friendly. Hoping (and planning) on updating more frequently again, but you know what they say about the best laid plans...


	10. Where Soul Meets Body, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note the rating change: HERE BE SMUT. Jaime and Brienne consummate their marriage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh gods, I wrote smut. This is my first time trying to write it, so I hope this works okay. I mean, I know this and my other fic have been the height of self-indulgent purple prose…so this is probably…actually, no, I won’t extend that metaphor, nope. You’re warned. Proceed at your own risk.

They enter to find a cheerful fire on the hearth crackling to itself. A generous pitcher of Dornish red and two fine silver goblets sit on the table along with bread, cheese, cured meats, and dried fruit. Once these would have been commonplace hospitality, but with winter on them, they are princely largesse. As soon as Brienne has moved into the room, Jaime quietly shuts and bolts the door. The soft snick spins Brienne around, eyes a little wide.

“Well, we don’t want to be interrupted, do we?” Jaime gives her the full force of his bright, wicked smile which feeds on her deepening blush as he approaches her. 

“Jaime…” Brienne doesn’t even know what she means to say, what she wants to say. She is well and thoroughly muddled.

“Brienne, not to worry: remember? I only rescue maidens,” He quips as he stalks towards her. But as he regards her, he finds his wicked smile soften as he takes her right hand in his hand of flesh and touches her waist with his hand of gold. Her sincerity and earnestness never fail to cut through his japes, his sarcasm, his cynicism and it’s one of the things he loves her for. They regard each other for a few moments in a charged silence that is only punctuated by the snapping of the fire. 

Brienne considers how the firelight only serves to further gild Jaime ( _her HUSBAND_ , she thinks still not quite believing it), the silver in his hair dyed gold yet again. He is the sun and his tentative touch warms her, wraps her in heat. His eyes are warm and his expression is calm, content. She realizes that this is a relatively new countenance to her: she has seen him furious, mocking, desperate, suffering, worried, triumphant, puzzled, arrogant, and happy, but not content. Not before he came north and laid his heart bare to King Jon’s court and she accepted his suit. She likes this look on him and wonders at the knowledge that she has put it there.

Jaime watches Brienne carefully regard him, eyes cool and calm like the fabled waters of her island. She knows everything he’s done, but with that look in her eyes, Brienne makes him feel clean: she trusts him. She believes in his honor. It makes him feel new, young. It’s not something anyone else has ever been able to give him (would or _could_ , if he’s honest). He is content to watch how the thoughts in her head play across her face, change her clear eyes. He will lets his wife ( _his wife!_ his heart sings) set the pace for the evening and decide what they will and will not do (although he might have one or two suggestions just in case). He can sees something new shine in her remarkable eyes and it makes him raise his mouth up to hers, capturing it in a long, gentle kiss. He breaks it moving back just an inch or so to catch her eyes again to read her expression.

This time Brienne tilts down to kiss her husband, lips tentative at first, but then with more confidence. Her right hand trails up his waist, back, neck, and into his hair making Jaime moan as her fingernails graze his scalp. He deepens the kiss, his right arm firm around her waist while his left cups her face, pinky tracing her strong jawline and thumb running across her cheekbone.

This causes their armor to clank and they jolt apart. Had Brienne imagined such a moment once, she would have been mortified. Instead, she finds her eyes locking with Jaime’s and they laugh, reminded of when she accepted his proposal.

“Wife, if you will allow me to play squire?” He grins and after she shrugs out of her surcoat, he reaches to loosen a strap. In the end, she occasionally lends a hand, and then returns the favor divesting him of his armor which she piles on a chest next to her own. It somehow makes this seem more real to her to see their armor in pieces, side by side. Then they are standing in their gambesons regarding each other. Jaime follows, meets her eyes, and reaches out to slowly tug at her laces.

Brienne’s heart speeds but she breathes deeply, finding comfort in the serious, honest look he is giving her as he loosens and opens it to reveal her linen tunic. It does things to her body, things she is no stranger to except that this time, she knows—she trusts—that she does not burn alone so she shrugs out of the garment, and folds it on top of her armor. She turns back to Jaime, captures his eyes, steps in, and lets herself run her palms up his chest until her fingers find his laces, deftly untying them. She is so very nervous, but she trusts him. She will lay these ghosts to rest: she will not let them haunt her wedding night. She half imagines wielding a spade and turning the dirt over and Jaime sees: he has his own that he is exorcising. They have a moment of understanding and determination to not let others into their marriage bed. 

He slips out of the gambeson and without breaking their eye contact, tosses it untidily so that it falls off the chest to the floor. He advances on her, wraps his arms around her and nuzzles her jawline, smiling softly to himself that he has to tilt his head up slightly to do so. He breathes in the scent of her skin, sharp with her nervousness, and so he slides his lips gently to a spot on her neck just under her ear where they seem to fit naturally and it makes her knees buckle a little. He smiles into her neck as she gasps in soft surprise at the sensation. He tongues the spot drawing yet another new noise from her lips and it ignites something in him.

He breathes her name, reverent, “Brienne,” running his nose up her neck across this new spot he’s claimed for his own and into her hair behind her ear and pulls her tighter so she can feel his hardness, his eagerness for her.

She takes a breath, about to say something, but then shakes her head at herself and her fear and kisses him hard and deep. 

When they eventually break, he smiles up at her and strokes her face, such a soft, fond expression that somehow manages to send her blood pounding even more stridently through her veins. She lets herself tug Jaime’s shirt over his head and allows herself to admire his bare torso. She’s seen it before of course, but it’s very different now that he is hers (and she is his). His smile turns cocky now, and damned if he doesn’t literally _preen_ under her gaze, subtly shifting to show himself off to his best advantage to her, and then her touch as she traces the planes of muscle, the lines of his bones. If he was half a god in the baths at Harrenhal, he has found enough ambrosia since to return him to full godhood, new scars and silver hairs notwithstanding. 

His golden hand is so obviously not part of him and though Jaime trusts Brienne and knows that she has seen him and touched him without it—more than anyone other than that creep Qyburn—and he uses this knowledge to remain calm as she reaches to loosen the straps while keeping his gaze, fingers gently playing along the scarred tissue with one hand while the other sets the prosthetic on the table. It loosens something in him. Her clear sapphire eyes catch his discomfort, his fear, and she brings the stump to her lips laying a soft kiss on the mass of scars while never breaking eye contact. He talked himself into losing his hand trying to save her maidenhead…which he will take himself in love this night. The irony. This is their shared horror, what brought them together, and so while they both grieve for what he lost, neither can regret what they have also gained as a result.

Brienne looks at the rest of him in open admiration, one hand still holding his right wrist and her thoughts are writ large on her face, Jaime’s favorite book: they incite him to return the favor and pull her shirt over her head. He can see her struggle not to cover herself, not to cower or be ashamed of her own scars. A warrior himself, he can read the tale of battles fought, but his eyes pause on the rake of bear claws that traverse her shoulder. His old dream returns to him unbidden, the vision of her naked, defending him with a flaming sword when his own sword’s light failed him. 

Her bravery and resolve makes him lay another kiss on her lips, openly showing her the appreciative heat in his eyes. He palms her right breast, a subtle swell that invites his thumb to graze her nipple, already half hard. Her breath catches and he gently impels her towards the bed, thick with soft furs so he lay her down. Their eyes meet again and she nods nearly imperceptibly. His hand still on one breast, his mouth slides from her neck down to the other breast where he licks his way around it and only pulling it into his mouth once the nipple is well hard, drawing a soft groan out of Brienne who alternates between holding onto his shoulders with a strength of grip that takes his own excitement to a new level and exploring the broad expanse of his back. After a time, he raises his head and they kiss. His fingers now play at the top of her breeches. “Brienne?”

Her blood is thundering in her heart and down below and in her ears and she nearly cannot hear him as he breathes her name, possibly the most beautiful her name has ever sounded to her as she nods. “Yes, Jaime.”

He kisses her again in earnest as he fumbles with her breeches but he gets it done (or undone and if he isn’t quicker about it, _he_ will be undone shortly) while she does the same. They both shimmy them off with their small clothes until they are both naked as their namedays. He drinks in the sight of her as he hovers on top of her, the one hand in her hair and leaning on his arm for balance. 

She has seen him naked before, of course, Jaime thinks. Having cared for him during his recovery means that she is more intimately acquainted with his body than any since his mother or wet nurse. (While Cersei may know his sexual body better than anyone heretofore, she certainly never would have cleaned his sweat, blood, weeping wounds, piss, shit, and vomit.) He is determined that having dealt with so much of the messiness of his life, that he will give her the pleasure of life as well. After kissing her soundly, he trails kisses down her neck, spends a few more minutes with her breasts while nudging her legs apart with a knee. After a last, strong suck, he continues his trail of kisses and licks to her belly after which point Brienne raises her head and runs her fingers through his hair to get his attention and capture his eyes again.

“Jaime?”

“I know that while you’re a maid—”, he stops. “ _Are_ you yet a maid?” He is curious, no fear or anger or distaste in the question. It is matter-of-fact.

Brienne sputters, “Of _course_ I am! I would have told you if I wasn’t!”

“Well, I know your sense of honor and duty to your house, so I imagined so but still, I didn’t like to make assumptions. Anyhow. You _were_ in Renly’s camp, and you’re probably not completely ignorant of what happens between a man and a woman.”

“Well, yes, Jaime. I’ve seen camp followers with the army.”

“Well, then,” He said and leaned in to continue his previous activity.

“But…”

“You never saw anything like this?” She nods. “Have you heard of ‘the lord’s kiss’?” She shakes her head, which makes him pull on his wickedest, most smoldering smile and is rewarded with watching her pupils drown the impossible blue of her eyes in black. “Well, I _am_ your _lord_ husband now. I suppose I shall have to show you. It’s my sacred duty to save you from your lack of experience in this area…and I only rescue maidens.”

Normally when Jaime looks so smug and satisfied, it makes Brienne want to smack him or take him down a peg or two…but for some reason, she can’t find it in herself to retaliate when he gently pushes her back down and his head settles…oh! _THERE_ and she feels a soft, warm wetness that is not her own and oh, it’s not so soft now and she realizes exactly what he’s doing and why it’s called “the Lord’s Kiss.” Then, after a while, he shows that his left hand has certainly gained some dexterity and after she shudders her release after much attention from, gods, Jaime and as he raises his head looking for all the world, gods help her, like a very satisfied Lion of Lannister wiping his mouth on the back of his right stump, it’s everything Brienne can do to not laugh at the image of a cat grooming itself. Her laughter quickly leaves her as he brings his mouth to hers again, his tongue bold now, and she notices he tastes different. She realizes that it must be herself blending with him. And at that moment, she feels him hard against the core of her, her legs having given way to let him lie between them, angled open without her even thinking about it. It’s so natural. She cups his face and looks at him and then kisses him. She never in her wildest dreams thought she would have this.

Feeling her acquiescence, Jaime is only too happy to progress to the next stage, rubbing himself against her juncture, feeling her very ready, hand on her hip to guide the angle a bit. “Brienne, I’ve only one hand and we’ve not done this before; we don’t know each other’s bodies yet. You’ll have to guide me in.”

She’s taken a little aback—everything her septa had said made it sound like sex was something men did to women, and women just lay there. She hadn’t thought about it being particularly participatory: it just happened to them. She’d only seen soldiers and camp followers rutting and those couplings largely supported her hypothesis. But then, she hadn’t seen soldiers do what Jaime had done for her, either. And she trusts Jaime. And she _is_ a woman of action, after all, so reassuring herself by looking into his eyes, she tentatively grasps hold of him. He closes his eyes and exhales so quickly she’s concerned until he opens his eyes again and seizes her mouth with his. 

“Wench, I’ve dreamt, waited so long for you to touch me…” 

He’s breathless. He’s actually _breathless_ at _her_ touch!

“Please don’t judge my stamina from tonight—my self-control is near shot,” he huffs.

She doesn’t really understand what he means but has a vague idea patching together what her septa has said and from overhearing camp followers talk. Her knowledge about what goes where is purely academic, so she fumbles a bit to get him seated at her entrance which given his prior attention, actually nearly…wants him. Still, it’s a bit awkward and her cheeks flame. 

He sees her blush and can practically hear her worry and using his hand to keep her hips where they need to be to eventually proceed, kisses her again and forces her eyes to meet hers.

“Brienne?”

“Jaime?”

“It’s okay. Think on this like,” he thinks, trying to find something to her mind at ease and to help him gather a bit more self-control. “Sparring with a new weapon and a new partner.”

She looks so skeptical that the absurdity of them being on the brink of consummating their marriage and sparring makes him smile, eyes crinkling. It _is_ awkward, but it’s also very much _them_. This moment, this reaction is theirs and theirs alone. 

It also gives him some very interesting ideas for the future but he shuts them down because if he follows them to their conclusion, this will be over all too soon. He continues. “It takes some practice to learn the balance, the technique with a new weapon. And with a new sparring partner, you have to learn their patterns, how they move. Coupling is not so different.” He noses his way up behind her ear again drawing a deep shudder from her. “I just learned that you like that. I didn’t know that yesterday or even this morning. I plan to press my advantage.” Which he does with lips and tongue and mouth making her buck against him which given where she is holding him, initiates consummation.

They both freeze, but Jaime groans, burying his face in her neck and she gasps at the new sensation.

“Brienne?”

“Yes, Jaime?”

“Are you alright?”

“Yes,” and her voice only shakes a little.

“I’d like to continue.”

“Yes,” she breathes bracing herself for the pain that her septa has warned her about as Jaime seats himself fully inside her, a sword finding its scabbard. Instead, she simply feels…stretched. Full. Unexpected. Unaccustomed. It feels odd and maybe a bit uncomfortable and like nothing her own occasionally brave fingers could have prepared her for, but it isn’t quite pain. She notices that Jaime has stopped once fully sheathed in her and is looking to her.

“Are you alright?”

She nods without thinking. “Yes.”

He kisses her again, pausing to hold her face in his for a moment before he begins moving again. At first, it doesn’t do much for her, but neither does it hurt; he is simply moving in and out and she is content to hold him close, still feeling loose and boneless from his earlier attentions, but then he changes his angle a little and it makes her catch her breath and let loose a soft groan of surprised pleasure. He notices and a fierce look she hasn’t seen in his eyes for a very long while catches fire. 

This is what she saw when they fought on the bridge so long ago. He wasn’t just making a joke when he compared coupling to sparring: he is deadly serious in this moment and in his intentions. He means to win, whatever that means in this situation. Caught up in the sensation of him, the look on his face, she wraps her long legs around his hips and he cries out his pleasure. 

He redoubles his approach in a frenzy that leaves her speechless, drowning in overwhelming sensation. His cries increase hot in her ear and she holds him as tightly as she can with every part of her body, with her entire being. This is all so very unfamiliar, but she is surprised to find herself riding him as well despite being underneath him. She feels an especially strange twitch and pulse inside which coincides with Jaime giving a particularly strong groan into her neck and holding her so very close.

Their eyes open, blue meeting green. They touch each other’s faces tentatively, content to be joined and breathe and contemplate the other. 

Brienne is surprised to feel a sense of real loss when he eventually withdraws, despite being drawn into his arms and carefully and thoroughly kissed afterwards. She has lived so many years, her entire life, with nothing inside her, and in less than an hour, she feels incomplete without him there, even when he is naked at her side, holding her and their legs entwining, smelling of her, and loving. It’s something to think on. She has a lot to think on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only got through this because honestly, 1) I have some wonderfully generous commenters cheering me on and 2) if someone else was writing this and I was reading it, I would be…less than satisfied to have the door closed in my face with a jump to the next day, so.
> 
> It also made me reflect on J/B smut on here, and one of the things that really strikes me about this fandom is that generally, there is a lot of telegraphing of or explicit giving of consent, which I think is awesome. It makes sense given these characters, especially Brienne’s own experiences, but anything that helps reinforce that consent = sexy is pretty great in my opinion.


	11. Brothers on a Hotel Bed; Where Soul Meets Body (Reprise)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime reflects on what was and what is; we learn a little about what's happening in Kings Landing.

Jaime wakes in the night, warm, replete, wondering if this can be real life. He gets to wake up to her here in her bed, content and naked in her arms: his love. Brienne’s breath is a steady ebb and flow and his drowsy thoughts wander. He is surprised that they turn to Cersei. Or maybe not: she is the only other woman he has held close like this. He thinks of their parting, how it was so much easier than he had thought it would be. Once, they had murmured to each other that they were two halves of a whole, that her eyes were his eyes, but he had not found his sweet sister in the hard green glare of the woman on the throne or in her chambers. She just looked like someone he used to know. Looked like someone he used to love. But then, Cersei had said much the same to him, and he knows she’s right: he _has_ changed. He does not regret the man he’s become; in fact, he celebrates it. It’s one of the reasons he loves Brienne so much. So he and his sister parted strangers.

Brienne shifts a little beside him, snuffling a little in her sleep and it draws his attention back to the woman in his arms. He plants a soft kiss on her shoulder, tucking his nose into her neck, and times his breaths with hers, concentrating on the feel of her soft-hard body against his, breathing deep her scent as he drifts back off to sleep, smiling.

\---

When he awakes, he finds them face-to-face, Brienne quietly regarding him, a calm considering look. He smiles drowsily and shifts to touch her face, a brush of his thumb across her cheek.

“Good morning, wife,” he grins. He loves saying that.

She loves hearing it. “Good morning, husband,” she replies and shyly ducks over to give him a light kiss. She loves saying it as well. Jaime deepens the kiss and she can feel him eager against her. She is surprised, but game despite the soreness. It’s a satisfying soreness, like after a particularly good practice bout. She recalls his observation that in some ways swordplay and sex aren’t so different, so she decides to roll on top of him and pin him as she might in the training yard. His eyes blow from green to black and his breathing speeds, as does his heartbeat under her palm. She is a bit surprised to find herself joking, “You know, the last time I had you pinned and drowning with this look on your face, you told a man you were chastising your wife.” 

Jaime’s eyes widen even more and he shouts something halfway between a laugh and a cry feeling her roll her hips against him, straddling him, which he meets with his own. “You know what made me say that then?” Brienne shakes her head. “It occurred to me that we looked like we’d been fucking, not fighting. Maybe that was the first clue that I wasn’t just thinking about you as my captor,” he grins. “I was half-starved and weak and tired and scared. It felt _so_ good to have a sword in my hands again, even if they _were _bound. And you’d already surprised me with your skill and strength on the road, so I was more than ready to test mine against yours.” Here angles his hips and presses up a bit just so, causing her breath to speed up a bit. “And oh, it was everything I could have hoped for,” he gives her a roughish smile, stretching up to capture her lips.__

__After a while, he breaks the kiss and continues staring up at her, a clear, peaceful green gaze. “You know, I’m glad you were my last right-handed bout.” His right wrist runs down her shoulder, along her back, settles at her thick waist._ _

__This stops Brienne, she catches her breath. “Truly, Jaime?” A beat. “ _Why?_ ”_ _

__“When I think on it, my sword hand had been the source of my glory and my worst deeds. Did you know I was born holding onto Cersei’s leg with my right hand?” Above him, she is taken aback and mutely shakes her head. He strokes her with his wrist and hand. “I killed Aerys with my right hand. I pushed Bran Stark out the window with my right hand. My father saw me as _his_ right hand. I did not really begin to really see you until you put me in my place while nursing the loss of my right hand. I _had_ begun to begrudgingly respect you before that, true, but it took you telling me to stop sulking, to listen to me at Harrenhal… No, I do wish my left hand would gain the same level of skill, but I don’t regret losing my right, not if it was necessary to find myself here, under you, your loving husband who is about to fuck you senseless.”_ _

__Brienne is speechless until Jaime begins to move under her, showing her this new way for them to come together and then they both stop thinking._ _

__\--_ _

_A few weeks prior_

__Cersei is listless, wandering the gardens, her rooms. Qyburn never seems to bring her good news. Lord Tarly manages to be both insufferably dour and obsequious and she wishes she could afford to banish him from court if only to not have to bear his thinly veiled self-righteousness but she needs his forces. _Jaime ought to be here and dealing with this toad,_ she thinks. _ _

__Once, he would have laid her down, joined with her, and then lain with her until she turned him out of bed. They would have locked eyes throughout, while they held each other as long as they could before they got caught. He was always so reckless when it came to being together. She always had to pull him back from the edge before he destroyed himself, her, the family. When he came this last time, when he left, there was none of the heat. They had looked at each other like…like not even brother and sister. It wounds her more deeply than she is ready to admit._ _

__She is queen: she shouldn’t have to be dealing with this ridiculousness. She should be able to put Tarly in his place, let him know how insignificant he is…except he’s not. With Jaime gone, with Casterly Rock blaming slow response to various crises and skirmishes, with the city watch in disarray, she doesn’t know what to do but she doesn’t have anyone she can really trust aside from Qyburn who for all his ruthlessness, knows nothing about the political history of relevant houses or battle. If only Osfryd Kettleblack hadn’t been such a disappointment, after all she’d invested…_ _

__Once again, she realizes that she can only rely upon herself. Tyrion betrayed her when he killed her mother. Her father betrayed her, so why not Jaime as well? She shakes her head and rings for more wine. The quiet dark haired maid unobtrusively replaces the flagon and clears the dirty plates and cutlery, eyes downcast. Why is it that good servants are so much easier to find than honorable warriors?_ _

__“Girl,” Cersei commands. The servant stops in mid-clearing, holding the empty flagon flagon while balancing four plates._ _

__“Yes, your grace?” Eyes downcast, voice soft._ _

__“You have served here before, have you not?”_ _

__“Yes, your grace,” the girl’s voice trembles._ _

__“You are very good. You are quiet and competent. That’s more than I can say for most around here these days.”_ _

__The girl’s shoulders relax somewhat._ _

__“What do they say below about all this?”_ _

__The servant girl keeps her eyes on the floor and shakes her head. “To be honest, your grace, we don’t have time to talk of such things.”_ _

__This answer contents Cersei who is feeling expansive with this goblet of Arbor red. “This will be my last war, win or lose. This will be my legacy.”_ _

__“Yes, your grace,” The servant curtseys and closes the door behind her._ _

__Cersei takes a long moment to appreciate the sun going down against the horizon of King’s Landing bathing everything in a blaze of gilded light. She is content for moment, a rare experience these days and pours herself another goblet of wine from the new flagon. She doesn’t need anyone. Her father never appreciated her. Her husband was a drunken, sodden joke. Even her dear brother has been a disappointment. Well. She is queen now. _She_ is the Lionness of Lannister now. She sits the Iron Throne. _Let them come._ She pulls her hurt, her anger, her resentment, her sadness, her loneliness around her and it is so much heavier than her maiden cloak of wool, silk, gold, and gemstones. She brings the wine to her lips, drinks deep, and as she looks upon the skyline, appreciates the delicate layers of flavors. _ _

__Then she struggles to take a breath._ _

__What is this?_ _

___What is this?_ _ _

__She desperately tries to pull air into her lungs but can’t—somehow, she just…can’t. The world narrows. She sees the servant girl return, face still downcast, but now it looks down upon her from high above and the girl’s smile is so cold, frost touches her gray eyes._ _

__“The North remembers, you fucking bitch.” The girl leaves without a backward look._ _

__No one notices for a day and a half as none have been brave enough to enter without her say-so._ _

__It will take years for the maesters to have the luxury of documenting how the Lannisters fell and Westeros came back under Targaryen rule to identify this catalyst: Cersei Lannister dead by seemingly the same poison as her eldest son and as there are no family members to support her—her brothers fled, and extended family dead or gone—she was undefended. Unlike Joffrey who at least was surrounded by family and courtiers, Cersei had no one to hold her as she thrashed in her panic, to see how her skin turned from gold to purple, that her emerald eyes were quickly surrounded by Lannister red before going dull forever._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-outs to A Wiki of Ice and Fire and the Game of Thrones Wikis. I could never keep all this detail about what’s happening in the books and show straight without them. And yes, I did steal another character's line and reuse it here for tasty parallel purposes.
> 
> Also: THAT TRAILER FOR SEASON 7!!!


	12. Different Names for the Same Thing: First Reprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Much plot. Very wow. Many story developments!

Brienne, Jaime, and Tormund are in the training yard working with the various fighters to get them in shape. Both Jaime and Tormund have been giving her lessons on the sly in command, passing off their experience as advice. It might be the only thing that keeps two men from coming to blows, that they realize the other truly loves Brienne and respects her as a fighter, sees her as a commander, and want to see her succeed. It’s created a fragile, strange truce between the two of them.

Brienne and Jaime’s wedding tourney reinforces this. As the honored guests, neither of them can fight, but Tormund pulls her aside in front of Jaime, acknowledging his presence and importance to her as he speaks with her. “You’ll need to watch them all. Watch the Free Folk for their ability to fight amongst you southerners. Watch your southerners for their patterns and approach. You both know what’s really facing us. We need to know who will create allies on the field to defeat a theat.”

With that, Tormund turns and slams his helm in place, striding out. He lets loose with his battle cry and as much as Brienne loves Jaime, her heart is in her eyes as she watches him wade into the field without fear, knowing he is doing so for her despite knowing she is not for him. Yet another experience she never thought to have.

No one is surprised when Tormund wins the melee, and it has been very instructive to Jon, Brienne, and Jaime as they consider their army. Jon presents a dragonglass axe to Tormund with much honor, and embraces him with his strength. He knows what this turn of events has meant to his friend and for all that he loves Tormund, he cannot deny the deep joy and contentment that he sees in Lady Brienne. (He cares not enough to notice Ser Jaime’s equally perpetual placid expression these past few days.)

Tormund has learned about southron customs and while his eyes capture Brienne’s momentarily, he places the crown of vines and dried flowers on Lady Sansa’s head with a deep courtly bow. Sansa sees his first look and knows what this means for her half-brother’s staunchest supporter, so she smiles and lays a chaste kiss on his cheek. Tormund bows again, shoulders the axe, and sweeps out without a look.

Brienne feels curiously bereft; she has never been on this side of things before. Jaime’s hand finds hers and she is maybe a little surprised to find his smile is melancholy and not spiteful nor gloating when he pulls her to him so that they can get ready for the evening meal.

\---

After the tourney, things move quickly. Shortly after, a fat, young maester armed with Valyrian steel arrives with a young woman and babe. This would be surprising enough, but King Jon welcomes him with a whoop of joy and a strong embrace. He orders quarters prepared for the maester and his companion and while their new guests rest. There will be a full council later to hear what he has to say, but in the meantime, he calls for Davos and Sansa to join him in his solar.

Tormund, Brienne, and Jaime go back to the training yard. Even before her marriage was finalized, Jon, Davos, and Sansa have connived about how to lessen Littlefinger’s prominence through Brienne’s position without giving him cause for offense. They have decided that as long as Jon ignores Jaime and Tormund both for those councils that must remain more secure, Baelish has less cause to complain, so long as it doesn’t happen very often. They have already discussed with Tormund and Brienne the need for them to quietly mix with Vale knights and foot soldiers. As expected, Ser Jaime has also been making quite regular rounds. While the Vale fighters might not know Brienne’s house, nor trust a wildling, and know their own lord has no experience in battle, it makes the Kingslayer’s presence almost comforting to them.

They’ve just finished running drills and set up the men for group fighting exercises when they are summoned to join the king for a full council. They arrive just after Lady Mormont and Littlefinger sidles in behind them, closing the door.

They learn the young maester’s name is Sam, formerly of House Tarly, and served with King Jon at the Wall. (“I had to take my house blade: now it’s needed here much more than in Horn Hill,” he declares somewhat nervously, but with absolute conviction.) They are surprised to see the wildling girl with him. She is introduced as Gilly. Sam says her help was invaluable going through all the books.

Brienne can’t help but flinch a little at learning his house, but the man’s face doesn’t hold any trace of his father’s cruelty or hardness, and he has remarkably kind eyes. He spins an incredible tale of what he learned at the Citadel. Indeed, for having been gone such a short time and him being so young, his chain already has many links—she sees black iron, silver, bronze, copper, pewter…and…is that Valyrian steel? Normally she would doubt herself, but having carried Oathkeeper for so long, she cannot deny what she sees. She bites the question back though, as he is speaking of what he has learned about the Others, Children of the Forest, and dragonglass, and dragons. 

Jaime smiles crookedly to himself, thinking about Tyrion’s love of dragons. With so many stories coming out Essos, dragons might well and truly be returning to Westeros. He wonders where his brother is, Tyrion has seen them fly overhead. Granted, if they come with the Targaryen girl, then he probably won’t see much of them himself. Still, it’s a wonder: ice monsters, forest spirits, dragons…like something out of his brother’s books.

But then Maester Sam catches his attention more fully as he reports about what he heard about Daenerys Targaryen’s movements.

“She has three dragons: this has been confirmed from multiple sources and their descriptions all match. And, my lords…” Here the maester visibly swallows, looking to King Jon first. “I have news from Kings Landing.”

With winter coming to Winterfell earlier than elsewhere and the general political turmoil, news from the south has been scarce.

The room stills. Jon, Sansa, and Ser Davos are calm, their eyes steadily surveying the others while Sam continues. “Queen Cersei is dead, along with her Queensguard. Poison, they say.”

Brienne takes Jaime’s hand, grateful that as his wife, she can do so without turning heads. Jaime is likewise grateful and gently squeezes hers with thankfulness and love. For his part, he swallows hard, but keeps a pleasantly blank face (as a true Lannister raised to court life) and relaxed posture in his chair, knowing all (or most) eyes are on him to read his reaction. “Who controls the city? Who commands the City Watch?”

Being a deeply kind man, Sam might be the only person the Seven Kingdoms to feel bad delivering this news to the Kingslayer, despite how awful this man’s sister (and, um, well, rumors say they were also…but no, surely?) was. “The capitol is in chaos. No one knows. With news of Daenerys Targaryen’s arrival with dragons, many of the small folk have abandoned the city.” Sam swallows. “But Ser Jaime, there’s something else you need to know.” 

He pauses, holding Jaime’s gaze. “By all accounts, your brother is with her. Daenerys Targaryen, I mean. Safe. She has named him her Hand.”

Jaime is not the most self-contained of Lannisters—that honor goes to his father with Tyrion as the runner-up—but his position is precarious enough, and he doesn’t want to endanger or compromise Brienne’s—a thought which is enough to help him to temporarily lock down the seething cauldron of emotions that threatens to immolate him inside out.

Everyone at the table knows what these two bombshells must mean to him, albeit with different degrees of understanding and concern. Littlefinger looks positively gleeful at the ensuing chaos this must bring both in the south and in Winterfell; Lady Sansa wears a particularly serene expression at this news of her sort-of-former husband, watching Jaime’s face, although there is a hint at something else he can’t name because he doesn’t know her well enough. 

King Jon breaks the tension by saying that Sam and Gilly have only been able to briefly refresh themselves, and after such a long journey, they must be tired so the council will postpone further discussion until the morn.

Brienne rises, bringing Jaime with her, and escorts him out first. While it fools no one, that they are newly wed provides a plausible excuse for such a swift exit. Lady Mormont pauses a moment, her young, hard face opaque, then strides out having reached some internal decision. Littlefinger offers his arm to Lady Sansa, who takes it and allows him to lead her out of the room. This leaves Jon, Sam, Gilly, Davos, and Tormund, still seated on Jon’s left, who watches them leave, head tilted, quiet. Jon considers a moment and then tells Davos and Sam he’ll speak with them before the evening meal.

\---

They walk to their chambers unhurried, hand in hand. Brienne calmly slides the bolt in place before turning to face Jaime. He wears yet another look she hasn’t seen, although as she looks, she begins to be able tease the different expressions out: shock, wonder, grief, surprise, fear. He is distant and mute, but she doesn’t begrudge him. She methodically removes his armor without saying a word, her hands gentle and efficient, providing occasional swift, gentle caresses so he can feel her there. She sits him down on their bed while she removes her own armor, piling it next to his.

Brienne would like to think herself better than this, having Jaime seek her hand and wed her in love before Cersei’s death, but in her darkest heart of hearts, she can’t help but feel like she’s won a war. She’s not proud of it, but there is a quiet, fierce joy in her knowing this. It makes it much easier to be generous for him. She knows he loved his sister, that he and Tyrion parted on difficult terms.

Periodically as she works at the buckles, she searches his staring eyes with hers and eventually, he returns to himself and to her, meeting her eyes with a wide jade gaze, brow softly furrowed. His face slowly transforms as he considers her, hand rising to caress her face. 

“Well, that’s all quite unexpected,” he tries to quip, but his heart isn’t in it. “What are we going to do?”

“Love. Fight. Survive best we can.” Touching each other is now as natural as breathing: she reaches out and he pulls her into his arms as he sobs and she soothes him.

\--- 

It is only a couple of days since Maester Sam, Gilly, and Young Sam’s arrival that Brienne, Jaime, and Tormund find themselves interrupted whilst training would-be troops.

King Jon and Davos summon him and Lady Brienne with a word, and Jon summons Tormund with a look as they head to the main gate. 

The castellan yells down, “Declare yourselves to King Jon and his household.”

Jaime nearly chokes to see Ser Addam Marbrand and Ser Daven Lannister leading some five thousand men. They are both far more and far fewer than he could have hoped for. Once, he or his father would have commanded a force at least five or six times this size. _Still, with bandits, the famine, civil war, the winter, well, it’s five thousand more men than they had this morning,_ Jaime thinks. Plus, two friends he loves and trusts. That is worth much and his face breaks into a wolfish smile as he seizes Brienne’s hand as he looks to King Jon.

“Your grace, may I present what’s apparently left of the Lannister army?”

\---

After all the necessary ceremonial welcomes and words (the wagons of supplies and goods do much to inspire goodwill in the northerners), Jaime embraces both Addam and Daven. Brienne follows just behind at his right, hanging back just a little. While she has become accustomed to being his wife and those around them knowing how close their relationship is, this is the first time she will be presented to people from Jaime’s former life. She knows who they are and the affection he bears both of them having heard of him speak of them before. Still, it’s a little nerve-wracking—she’s surprised to discover that it’s because for months now, her world has only been full of people who know and respect her. What a change.

Jaime, oblivious in his joy, reaches out with his right arm to pull Brienne closer to him and forward to meet the new arrivals. “Daven, Addam, allow me to introduce my dear lady wife, Brienne Lannister of Tarth.”

They had heard the stories (at this point, most of the Seven Kingdoms have heard the stories) but were unsure what to think. Clearly, there was some truth to them: the familiarity and fondness of his touch and glance and tone of voice when speaking of her, that she is as truly as large and ugly as the tales. But the way her face softens and her remarkable eyes shine when they catch his, well, can someone be truly ugly when their face is transformed to show such love as when she looks to Jaime seeing the same love reflected back at her?

Brienne claws together what pretty manners she is capable of given her sudden nervousness, bowing slightly. “Sers, it is a pleasure to meet you. Jaime’s spoken of you both often and with much fondness.”

Addam is the first to find his tongue as he bows, takes her hand, and kisses it. “My lady, it is a pleasure to meet you. It is good to know my new liege lady is patient and kind: how else could she stomach being married to my lord?” He grins up at her with a playful side-eye at Jaime. 

Not to be outdone, Daven takes her hand and bows his shaggy head over it. “Lady Brienne, clearly the Warrior and the Mother have blessed you, for it would take at least two of the Seven to fortify you in the handling of my dear cousin. Do you also forge metal or otherwise make things? The blessings of three of the Seven might be needed for his like.” As he releases Brienne’s hand, he looks over at Jaime. “Indeed, it’s a good thing you _are_ my dear cousin, my liege lord, and that the winter is proving so awful to get me to come up here at all seeing as Robb Stark destroyed my chance at vengeance.”

“Ah, Daven, you come to the heart of the matter,” Jaime sighs and turns serious. “This winter has brought a threat that makes blood oaths seem of less consequence than an offhand word. We must all come together to fight a foe that is poised to kill every man, woman, and child in Westeros. The Night’s Watch and northmen have made reluctant peace with the wildlings. King Jon welcomed me into his household fully knowing my crimes against his house even before I married Brienne.”

At this, Ser Davos walks up. “Ser Jaime is correct: it is time to lay old grievances behind or else we will all die.” He sighs. “Let me show you to your rooms. King Jon wishes to speak with you both, sers, Ser Jaime, and Lady Brienne after you’ve had a chance to rest a bit and wash the dirt of the road from yourselves. I am sure Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne will get your men settled in the meantime.” 

\---

Jaime is visibly buoyed by the arrival of Addam, Daven, and their forces. There’s a new spring in his step and sparkle to his smile. He stands a little straighter. It makes Brienne’s heart glad.

Watching from a parapet overlooking the yard, Sansa considers how Jon’s council has grown with all these new arrivals; he will need to form a small council to keep things manageable. Given how much of his power was derived from the larger assembly, perhaps he should also have a large council in addition—prevent the lesser lords from feeling snubbed and without a voice. 

She floats the idea with Davos—she and he have been conferring more and more frequently and she appreciates his decency, experience, and pragmatism. If you had told her that her best friend at court would have been Stannis Baratheon’s former Hand, she would have never have believed it, but this winter made strange bedfellows. And she and Davos agree that for all the possible dangers in having two prominent Lannister bannermen with their forces garrisoned in Winterfell, Littlefinger and his Knights of the Vale are somehow more troubling due to the unspoken truth of their lord’s motives—literally day has become night and things that once would not have been thinkable are now reality. 

Quietly, Sansa and Davos weigh the possible members of the small council. If they follow the southron tradition, there are some easy equivalencies: Davos as Hand, Sam as Grand Maester. Other roles are harder: Master of Coin (what coin?), Master of Laws (whose laws?), Master of Ships (what ships?), Master of Whispers (who is subtle and to be trusted?), Lord Commander of the Kingsguard (Jon doesn’t have one). 

This isn’t Kings Landing and this isn’t business as usual so instead, they consider who they think _ought_ to sit on the council. Both agree Lady Mormont has earned a place: she reminded the remaining Stark bannermen of their oaths. Despite her youth, she has given sound advice and provided real tangible support at no small cost to her own house. Tormund as unofficial leader of the Free Folk will be needed. Brienne is helpful in that she represents both the east and she is Lady Sansa’s rescuer and sworn sword; that she is married to the Lord of Casterly Rock (and by extension, has rightful command of his forces after Jaime) seals it. 

The question is do they need Jaime as well seeing as he has come through with both supplies and fighting men? Would that be viewed as giving him too much influence?

Despite Davos’s misgivings about having Litterfinger on the small council, Sansa rightfully points out there’s no way around it given the presence (and need) of the Knights of the Vale. She tells him she has safe guards in place. Davos wants to ask, but doesn’t. His trust of her raises his standing with her that much higher. Sansa reasons that if they let Littlefinger, a veteran of numerous small councils, sit on the small council, they should balance him out with another, and so Jaime Lannister will also serve. Nine members is not so small, but neither is it the largest on record. They seal their deliberation with small, satisfied smiles and a toast of watered wine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a wee wisp of a ghost of Stannis the Grammarian in here (one of my favorite cracky things in the GOT fandom ever), if you can spot ‘im. Also: so much for that original approach of loosely connected vignettes I started with… although I do reserve the right to jump around.


	13. Different Names for the Same Thing: Second Reprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne gets some recognition for her work. King Jon takes the new arrivals north to show them what’s what. An unexpected visitor arrives bearing news.

While the ravens have been flying between Winterfell and Castle Black, Jon feels it’s time to lead another sortie: let Lannister’s two commanders and their best men see what is north of Winterfell and beyond the Wall. The only real trouble comes with trying to decide who goes and who stays: he doesn’t want Sansa left alone with Littlefinger, so first, Jon thinks to keep Brienne back as she is his most able fighter along with Tormund. Tormund would be able to appeal to any new Free Folk they encounter. But if she stays, then Jaime must come with them as these are his bannermen and his word brought them (and their supplies). …But can they risk him? He did better than most of the soldiers when Jon forced him on his pre-nuptial ride, but he is definitely not the fighter he once was and if he is wounded or killed, would Ser Daven and Ser Addam follow Lady Brienne? Would the Winterfell men follow her for that matter?

It’s a bit of a conundrum.

He calls Sansa and Davos to meet him in his solar. They turn the problem over and over and are at an impasse when Sansa has an idea that makes her smile. Jon and Davos think it could work and it’s certainly the best idea any of them have had thus far. 

\---

Jaime is sitting with Brienne, Addam, and Daven off to the side of the Great Hall when a page summons Brienne and Jaime and any they would have attend them to the Godswood. They look to each other sharing a moment of confusion and questions, finally getting up to obey the king’s summons. Jaime raises his eyebrows at the other two men, shrugging and motioning them to join them.

They arrive to see King Jon and Lady Sansa standing before the heart tree. Ser Davos, Maester Sam, Lady Mormont, Lord Baelish, Tormund, and Pod stand off to the side to witness. It rather reminds them of their wedding, so they approach hand in hand. 

Brienne is surprised when King Jon begins by asking her alone to kneel in front of him. Jaime sees the king’s intent look settled on Brienne and stands off to the side instinctively. King Jon draws Longclaw and touches it to her right shoulder. “Brienne, do you swear before the eyes of gods and men to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect all women and children, to obey your captains, your liege lord, and your king, to fight bravely when needed and do such other tasks as are laid upon you, however hard or humble or dangerous they may be?” 

Brienne blinks up at King Jon, so surprised and flummoxed that it takes her a moment to collect herself so that she doesn’t sputter her reply. “Yes, I so swear, your grace.”

Jon touches her left shoulder, a smile breaking through his serious mien. “Then arise, Ser Brienne.”

Jaime’s face is full of joy for her. Podrick subtly sniffs and wipes his eyes while Sansa and Davos wear gentle smiles. Lady Mormont and Tormund wear rather savage grins, while Lord Baelish has put on a pleasantly blank expression. Addam and Daven look on with wide eyes and closed mouths. 

Jaime considers that he is the only man he knows of who can say he is married to a knight and it makes his smile widen in pride and love: just as there are no other men like him, just him, there are no other women like her: just her. He resolves to ask Sam if he might send a raven to her father so he will learn of this new honor that his utterly unique daughter has won for herself through her goodness and perseverance. 

\---

Brienne sees off King Jon, Jaime, and the rest. She and Jaime have already said their goodbyes (which ended up being rather more extended and sweaty than either had intended) but she will give a proper public farewell for the king, her husband and his kinsmen, and her comrade Tormund who has been bearing up bravely despite his deep disappointment.

They’ve only been gone a week and some days when a dragon is spotted approaching. It lands just outside Winterfell’s walls as Lady Sansa, Ser Davos, Brienne, Lady Mormont, and Littlefinger come running, arriving at the battlements just in time to see a little man gracefully slide off the dragon’s back carrying the rainbow flag of truce.

Sansa recognizes him instantly and breathes, “Tyrion.”

\---

Brienne summons a contingent of Winterfell and Lannister soldiers to their back as they descend and prepare to exit the gates as is her right as Sansa’s sworn sword and Lady Lannister while Lady Mormont does the same. Littlefinger realizes he has missed a trick and summons fighters from the Vale as well. It’s clear he doesn’t know what to do with them, so Brienne gives the appropriate orders to put them in some semblance of order displaying the houses represented. Everything Jaime has told her of Tyrion suggests that he will understand and appreciate the strange alliances, even if he doesn’t understand how they came to be. She is particularly concerned about what he will think of the Lannister troops, but she deems it a risk worth taking. He will either welcome her as his goodsister, or he won’t. Or perhaps he will assume they came to Sansa’s call? She will keep her mouth shut and see what happens: it’s rarely been a bad court strategy for her.

They slowly approach with the soldiers a respectful (but not useless) distance behind them, Sansa bearing a platter of bread and salt.

“Lord Tyrion. If you come in peace and do not play your father’s games,” her look is cold and shrewd and Tyrion thinks she is nearly the spit of her mother, “You are welcome here as what faces Westeros will require all of us to come together as you see here. As Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell and sister to King of the North, I offer you bread and salt.” She pauses and her eyes thaw a fraction. “If you bring a dragon north to fight the Others and help Night’s Watch, you will be even more welcome.”

Tyrion is truly a master statesman and it’s everything he can manage to not gape at any of this. Sansa has given her maiden name and has not mentioned their marriage at all, but he is not surprised and doesn’t blame her, especially if half of what he’s heard has happened to her since Joffrey’s wedding is true. His eyes have also been quick to pick out the banners behind her: Winterfell, Bear Island, yes, the Vale, but also _Lannister_ banners. What madness is _this?_ A small voice inside whispers, _What madness is it that you arrived astride a dragon?_ He collects himself quickly and slowly but steadily approaches Sansa’s party.

He recognizes Ser Davos by his shortened fingers—his presence here surprises him and gives support to her words; Littlefinger’s creeping self surprises him not at all, but the other two women give him pause. Given the house colors and aspect, the steel-eyed girl can only be Lady Mormont (a glance tells him that even at her young age, she will be a force to reckon with) and the tall, armored plain woman—she is familiar. It takes him a moment before he can place her; she brought Jaime back after he lost his hand. 

Interesting. 

He still can’t read this story yet and so decides to be safe. He _does_ have a dragon at his back, after all, but it doesn’t do to overplay one’s position.

Tyrion bows deeply, as perfect a courtly bow as his stature will allow him. “My dear Lady Sansa, thank you for your gracious welcome. I know your honor, the honor of the Starks of Winterfell, are still intact, which is more than the Lannisters of Casterly Rock can say…for many reasons.” His smile turns a touch sardonic and rueful. “While my father helped profane the laws of hospitality, I am glad to see that some still keep them. All would agree the Seven Kingdoms and its people are better for them.” 

He slowly approaches, eyes on hers, ready to read any change in her expression, posture, or other body language. Sansa knows he is asking her to confirm that he’s not walking into a trap despite his family having forfeited such sureties given his father’s behavior. He takes the bread, dredges it through the salt and swallows. 

Her eyes don’t leave his, but her expression thaws yet again just fractionally: the first real touch of sun on a long winter’s worth of snow. Tryion is glad for even this and allows himself a small breath.

“Lord Tyrion, do you not see your house’s bannermen here?”

He nods.

Sansa regards him, her bland smile taking on some quality he doesn’t have a name for. He never really knew her well—she was a traumatized child bride when last they met. Now a woman stands before him. Her look not emotionless, but utterly inscrutable to him.

“Ser Jaime is away with my brother the king and some of the Lannister bannermen to let them see the Wall and understand the threat beyond. In his absence, your goodsister commands those who remain. They came at your brother’s call to help us defend Westeros from the Others.”

Tyrion’s eyes widen a fraction and he clenches his jaw to keep it from dropping: his brother, ancient legends, _and_ a goodsister? “My—my lady?” Even Tyrion can’t help but gape a bit at this news.

“Oh, did you and your queen not hear of their marriage?” Sansa tilts her head prettily. “I cannot recall—did you not meet her when she was last in King’s Landing? I was rather too young to understand the importance of tracking such things then and anyhow, I was otherwise occupied with other matters to take much notice.” Her expression hardens a tad and she glories in being vague as she knows Tyrion can’t completely discount that young Lady Mormont night not have been in the capitol as some point…but gods, Jaime is old enough to be her grandsire. Still, politics and circumstances being what they are, he can’t make an assumption.

Brienne rescues him, her first act of sisterly regard.

“Lord Tyrion.” He is fairly sure they never spoke when she was last in the city and her voice is low and melodious—far prettier than she is. Well, expect her eyes perhaps, which are luminous. While he is a great appreciator of beauty, neither does he despise those without it knowing a little something about that state of being himself. “Jaime speaks of you often. He misses you very much.” Her words are simple and straightforward, earnest and honest. Rather like herself, there is an unexpected beauty in them. 

Tyrion approaches her and bends slightly over her hand, “My lady...” He shuffles through his memory desperately. He laughs inwardly at himself at the spectacle they must make standing side by side. The gods have a sense of humor. While he’s not sure how all this came to pass, what it might mean, if it’s even real, he finds himself wanting to make a good impression. Then his memory seizes on her name and he produces it triumphantly. “Brienne!”

"Ser Brienne, actually." Brienne smiles at him, a crooked smile that a little surprising on her face because he realizes it belongs on Jaime’s (or indeed, his own) and that’s when he knows for sure: this is truly his goodsister and that what she and Jaime have must be real. He recalls what she was like when she first came to court, how very unlike her disposition was to Jaime’s. If she can wear one of his expressions as naturally as she clearly wears his clothing (he recognizes weave and embroidery of both her tunic and jerkin), then somehow, his brother found love after Cersei. _Thank the Seven._

For all his mixed feelings about Jaime—love and pain and betrayal are a potent cocktail and the many months apart haven't helped sober him up quite yet—that his brother left his sister and married a woman such as this? It’s interesting and worth learning more about. If he doesn’t know what to do or feel about his brother, he’s at least feeling warmly disposed to his newfound goodsister. That they are supporting Sansa and Winterfell along with Stannis’s old hand (whom, as he thinks on it, would require Brienne to put aside some rather strong misgivings if the rumors about Renly were true), and Littlefinger sniffing around? This is the sort of intrigue he was born to and his queen sent him to untangle. As tired as he is by journey, he finds his second wind and is ready to get to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This actually ended up going about 90 degrees to where I thought it would, but it was such an invigorating development, I felt all inspired and ran with it. Gotta love those gifts from the writing gods! 
> 
> …But what the gods giveth, so they taketh away because I’m good and stuck. The next installment will be delayed thanks to writer’s block this week and work being crazy next week. I am definitely learning my lesson about the perils of posting WIPs.


	14. Different Names for the Same Thing: Third Reprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So much talking: Tyrion and Sansa talk. Tyrion and Brienne talk. (Pod means to talk, but can't, poor boy.) Tyrion and Sam talk.

The possibilities and personalities in play are almost enough to befuddle even Tyrion, so after his bath and a bite, he stops to consider whom he needs to talk to before the king and the rest of his party return (he does not let himself think _and my brother_ because he is _not_ ready). There is Sansa (and isn’t _that_ hilarious?), Ser Davos (he noticed his Hand pin so it would be good to make nice with his counterpart in the north), Lady Brienne (another turn-up for the books), and Littlefinger (a snake he knows of old). He ponders on speaking with Lady Mormont as well. He will if he can. She is undoubtedly a player in the game, and an unknown quantity…he is torn about where to put her in his list of priorities.

As he leaves his quarters, he finds Sansa has made his first decision for him: a page lets him know that she is awaiting him in her solar.

When he arrives, he is both surprised, relieved, an unexpectedly, a touch disappointed to find Ser Davos with her and seated on her right. The tables have turned and she is literally putting him in his place. He laughs and says so.

Sansa is taken aback for a moment, but can’t help but a wry smile at his observation. Ser Davos simply watches them both, listening, pleasant.

“My lady, much has happened since we last saw each other: my spectacularly awful nephew who was an even worse king was murdered for which I was wrongfully blamed but I have a _sneaking_ suspicion you might have known a thing or two about that business; my brother helped me escape execution, which I gleefully seized as an opportunity to kill my awful father (failing to shit gold after all) when I discovered he had destroyed the first woman I had ever loved in the most cruel and foul manner possible and successfully tempted the second woman I loved to betray me; I fled to Essos; you seem to have won back Winterfell after much hardship by all accounts; your half-brother is King in the North; I serve as Hand of the Queen to the last Targaryen--whose father, my dear brother slew as a trusted member of his Kingsguard. She has dragons. One of which lets me ride it.” His smile is toothy.

Sansa can forgive the slight smugness given the occasion. After all, he has been the kindest of her husbands and having a dragon who lets you ride it really is something to be smug about. She once felt that way about Lady.

He continues, “Then I learn that my foolish but well-meaning brother left my godsforsaken sister before her demise, declaring for the north, declaring his love to and marrying your sworn sword who comes from a small but tactically important island in the east; you tell me he is now north of the Wall with your half brother, King of the North, to check on how ice monsters from our wet nurse’s scary stories are now real and threatening all of Westeros with their evil king. Is that about it?”

Sansa nods. “More or less.”

“Gods,” Tryion rolls his eyes. “Seven help us.”

Sansa laughs. Davos isn’t sure what to say, so says nothing but watches and listens a Sansa and Tryion begin the first steps in the dance of diplomacy.

\---

The audience with Sansa went better than he had feared, if not as well as he had hoped. Still, they are talking. Of course it will take time, and where there’s dialogue, there’s a chance they can all come out of this with their heads intact.

As he walks the halls trying to recall his way around Winterfell from his last visit which seems like at least three or four lifetimes ago. He finds himself on a parapet overlooking the training yards. There he sees his apparent goodsister drilling four score men. Assisting her are a ragtag group of perhaps ten comprised of wildlings, northern, and southron fighters. 

She walks amongst sparring partners and small mock melees fully confident, offering a word here, a correction of form there. She has an easy, confident authority that Tyrion thinks reminds him a bit of his brother when he notices behind her follows a young man who is somehow familiar, making note of her various observations and hangs on her every word.

Is that…Pod? … _POD?!_ Well, _this_ can’t wait. Tyrion strides down as quickly as he can to meet his goodsister and her shadow, now number two on his to-do list. Where he was curious before, he is downright gleeful at this turn of events.

\---

Tyrion joins the line of men and women watching the drill at the training yard fence. While he can’t rest his arms on the top beam, they are spaced so that he doesn’t miss any of the action and waits until she dismisses the lot, giving a quiet word here and there as she makes her way to the water barrel. Pod trots behind her a loyal shadow and Tyrion thinks the lad should have been born to House Clegane rather than House Payne. Still, perhaps his former squire is “Payne” Tyrion’s debts by serving his…former?...wife? He groans to himself—even Dontos falling over from his cups wouldn’t have tried that jest.

“My lady goodsister!” Tyrion calls. Brienne startles, swiftly turning towards his voice.

“L-lord Tyrion!” she stutters in surprise, sounding for all the world like poor Podrick. She moves towards him, Pod following with eyes and mouth wide.

“M-my lord!” The boy—well, now a young man—gasps.

“Is that Podric Payne? I see you’ve managed to survive my sister as well as this violent and unpredictable world and am glad! How in the seven hells did you end up at Winterfell, lad?”

“I—I am my lady’s—Ser—Brienne’s squire, my lord. Ser Jaime sent me with her when she left Kings Landing to fulfill their quest to find and protect Lady Sansa. I thought if I found my lady, I might find you as well, my lord.”

For all that she’s been expecting this, Brienne is still not quite ready to receive Tyrion. That he has clearly recognized his former squire is a blessing because it gives them less fraught common ground to speak on.

“Pod has been an excellent squire, my lord, and always spoke well of you,” she offers with a small smile. 

Tyrion is touched despite thinking the boy might be a bit touched as well, but it’s another couple of pieces fitted into the puzzle of how Westeros finds itself in its current state and the distribution of players on the game board. His former squire seeking to protect his former wife now squires for his brother’s wife, the sworn sword of his former wife, Lady of Winterfell and sister to the King in the North. It is a strange, but not bad, hand to be dealt. Gods know the he's worked with less or worse to build a relationship.

Tyrion turns his attention back to Brienne. “I know you have many important duties, but I was hoping you might spare a couple of minutes so that we could become acquainted. We’re family now, after all.”

“I am at a stopping point with this morning’s training. If you like, we can go to the great hall to speak, where it’s warmer.”

As they walk, Brienne can’t help but internally cringe that she has to face his brother alone…although given what he’s told her about how they parted, perhaps it’s for the best. She tells herself that this is just another kind of battle, that she must champion Jaime, even if words aren’t her forte. _Seven help us all._ She gestures to a table in front one of the hearths and turns to her squire. “Pod, would you please have someone bring us some wine and water?” Pod nods and bounds off.

“Ah, the energy of youth. It’s good to see Pod still running about, eager to serve. Poor lad. I had wondered what happened to him. I’m glad to find him in your care, Lady-- _Ser_ Brienne.”

She blushes and not quite able to meet his eyes, responds, “We are family now, are we not? Please, just Brienne.” Now she does meet his eyes, her own a little wary and wearing a hopeful if cautious smile. 

“Indeed, Brienne. You must call me Tryion, then. I have to say, although I don’t know much of you, I can already tell you are a great improvement upon my other sister.” 

The double meaning in this is not lost on her—while she is not generally fast with her tongue, it does not mean that her mind is equally slow. She surprises herself in her response having become quite accustomed to Jaime’s own bitter wit, her riposte is stronger and quicker (and dirtier) than it might have been a few months ago. Before she knows, she arches an eyebrow, her small smile turning wry, “Yes, Jaime says much the same…on many counts.”

At this, Tyrion gives a surprised guffaw, “Oh, Brienne. I came here to assess the situation in the north for my queen and to attempt an opening of diplomatic relations. I had been to Winterfell and the Wall, and had struck up a friendly acquaintance with Jon Snow—I accompanied him to Castle Black and the Wall. I did not expect to find my brother a member of the household—particularly considering what he did to Bran Stark or how my sister treated Lady Sansa. And to find him here not only with his head attached, but married to the Maid of Tarth? Even I could not have guessed this state of events.” Tyrion shakes his head, musing. “I will be honest as you strike me as a woman who appreciates frankness.” Her deep blue eyes shine artlessly, honestly meeting his mismatched ones and he suspects he has learned a reason why his brother became enamored of her. “You did not flinch when I mentioned Cersei. You know?”

Brienne nods solemnly. “Jaime has always been honest with me. Even before we were friends, he never lied—neither to make himself better nor worse. I think it is one of the reasons I love him. He started by telling me all the awful things about myself—and himself, for that matter. But then he showed me that he was not just those things, that he was still capable of honor, that he had been honorable, and he saw the honor in me as well.”

Tyrion sighs. “I don’t know how I feel about Jaime. He was the only member of my family to love me, to see worth in me. He protected me from both my father and my sister. But he sold out the first woman I loved. …The second one took care of that for herself.” Tyrion wishes Pod would get back with the wine already. “You say he was honest with you, that he told you of the awful things he did. Did he tell you of Tysha?”

“Yes. After you…left…he was despondent and I don’t think just about…Joffrey’s death. I suppose since we met, I have been his confessor.” She smiles that small, sad wry grin that Tyrion recognizes—although not because it is Jaime’s, but because it’s his own. Something perhaps that he and his new goodsister share due to their independent experiences. 

“Before…everything, he often spoke of you with much fondness and admiration. Afterwards, I could see him start to relate something but then he’d stop.” She takes a breath and regards him quietly for a moment, then looks off into the distance. “He was furious about his father, but I don’t think it was just that you killed Tywin. I think he was angry about a lot of things: that your father wasn’t kinder to you; that he wasn’t able to protect you, him, or Joffrey; that his father kept demanding him do a duty he absolutely did not want; that he felt powerless with the loss of his sword hand—he couldn’t solve problems the way he used to.” She turns her eyes back to Tyrion. “He has repeatedly said that you should have been the heir, that you’d make a better Lord of Casterly Rock. He means it, and not just because he does not like the idea of rule.” She tilts her head. “I truly don’t know how he’ll feel about seeing you again, but I do believe he will be happy to know that you live and that you have found a position with a monarch who values you.” Another pause. “He is still fashioned Lord of Casterly Rock, as he was such when he left Cersei and holds the title at the forbearance of King Jon.” She meets his eyes again. “If we manage to survive all this, I think he’d give it gladly to you.”

Tyrion doesn’t know what to say; it’s been a while since someone presented him with such personal, bald truths and with such generosity. He is surprised she’s managed to survive. No wonder Jaime locked her up and then hurried her out of Kings Landing nearly as soon as she had arrived. He is speechless.

At this Pod arrives carrying empty goblets, flanked by a servant carrying a pitcher of wine and water. He is a comfort and a bridge at the moment, giving them a reason to change the topic to something less sensitive.

Tyrion pours the wine and Pod waters Brienne’s just so. Tyrion raises his cup and makes a toast: “To my goodsister, Brienne, and my former squire, Podrick: unexpected gifts from the north whose words and smiles will keep me warm this winter. Let us see the spring.” 

They drink.

\---

Later that afternoon after Tyrion’s had a chance to clear his head a little (he had not expected the conversation with Brienne to take such a turn), he makes his way up to the maester’s chambers. He is _very_ interested to learn that Maester Sam is Lord Tarly’s oldest—while the maesters may give up family names, in these times, having an eldest son of a house from the Reach is not a bad thing, particularly one so devoted to Jon Snow. 

Tyrion is the most patient, interested, most informed conversation partner Sam has ever had. The man is quiet and listening carefully except for when he asks incisive questions or shares a bit of knowledge. The two end up talking deep into the night without marking time. Tyrion doesn’t even reach for more wine, so engrossed he is in his questions about dragons and wights and Others and legends beyond the Wall.

As he stumbles back to his rooms in the early dawn light, the map of Westeros in Tryion’s head is becoming…well, he’d say a spider’s web, but even Varys didn’t know all the connections. Daenerys can bring Dorne, some of the Iron Islands, and strengthen the ties of the Reach. In theory, she should also bring the Stormlands, but he knows better: they don’t know her but the strength of her forces should help advance her cause. Truly, Brienne has the strongest connection, despite what happened with Renly. Tyrion strengthens the ties to the Westerlands that Jaime began. While nobody wants the Freys at the Twins, Sansa could call on Edmure and Riverrun—particularly now that the surviving Lannisters are on the same side, providing things don’t blow up.

He just needs to unite the north and the south. _JUST._ It’s an ever-recurrent theme in Westeros.

He considers: Jon is handsome and was a good man when he left him at the Wall. Daenerys is beautiful and can be a good woman when she doesn’t feel threatened. He has commanded armies of men; she has commanded men and dragons. They both care about the small folk. 

And if half of what Sam has seen and learned is true, they really will all need to come together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I squeezed this out and not super happy with it, but am trying to get this fic to the end and if I agonize, I'm not going to get it done. Hope you enjoy despite its issues. 
> 
> While this is a suuuuuuper fluffy self-indulgent fic, if you have is criticism, I welcome it! Critical comments are better than no comments because they'll help me get better and tell me what I _ought_ to fixate on. : )


	15. Your Heart is an Empty Room (Reprise)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More talking because so very many feels for so many people. Jaime and Tyrion can’t avoid a reunion. Plot!

Brienne is a bit shaken after meeting with Tyrion. Even knowing his agenda, his history with Jaime…it would have been terrifying if she did not have Harrenhal or the bear pit it to compare it with. After her afternoon detail training fighters in the yard, she is posted with Sansa who unsurprisingly invites her into the solar. 

“So, Brienne. I hear you and Pod entertained my former husband this morn.” Sansa wears a smart and playful smile as she pours tea for the two of them.

“Lord Tyrion was interested in getting to know his goodsister.”

“And to ferret out the political situation of the north.”

“Yes, and to learn where he stands with Jaime.”

“And where _does_ he stand with Ser Jaime?”

“I’ll tell you what I told him: I don’t know. He loves Tryion, but he loved his father.” She pauses, then raises her eyes to Sansa’s. “He loved his sister and left her to her inevitable destruction when she blew up the Sept of Balor.” Then Brienne sighs, looking out to the distance. “Truly, he thinks much of Tyrion. He speaks often of his skill for governing, his intelligence, his care for the small folk and stability of the realm.” She pauses. “Jaime never wanted to Lord of Casterly Rock: he wanted to be a brave knight who fought with honor,” she sighs. “I know what it is to just want to serve an honorable lord, and how hard it can be to find one,” she catches Sansa’s eye, warm sapphire blue catching the hard blaze of topaz, just like her mother’s. “He said Lord Tyrion would have been a much better lord than he.”

Sansa considers this, too canny to suck her teeth as she thinks in front of her sworn sword. For all she knows Brienne is biased, she also knows Brienne doesn’t lie and for all her love of her lord husband, she sees him perhaps more clearly than most. Brienne is quiet, staring into the fire. Sansa watches her begin to withdraw but won’t let her: there is more to learn here. She pushes Brienne to continue.

“Tryion said he is looking for a diplomatic solution. I don’t know him well enough to say whether I believe him or not. I admit I am disposed to believe him; I have seen the same look on Jaime’s face when he told me truth…but…I am not a lady and men have tricked me before.” She is quiet a moment. “You know the what’s at stake better than I, the people… But we also know what lies north where King Jon and Jamie and no small part of our forces are, what they’re dealing with. Dragons would change the game completely: we would have a chance.” Brienne didn’t mean to say so much, to speak so plainly, but when she raises her eyes to her lady, she finds her lady’s trained steadily on her own.

“Thank you, Brienne. Sleep well.”

Dismissed, she rises, bows, and quietly closes the door behind her, ensuring two guards stand at attention at her lady’s door.

Shortly after, Davos enters Sansa’s solar at his lady’s summons. They speak deep into the night in low tones, the door just ajar so the guards can keep complete watch.

\---

A few days later, King Jon returns with Tormund, Jaime, Addam, Daven, and the Lannister forces. The southroners look worse for the wear, their gold seemingly tarnished a bit with the winter. With the announcement of their arrival, Lady Sansa, Ser Davos, Ser Brienne, Lord Baelish (who has been quietly skulking all the while since the unexpected arrival), Lady Mormont, and Lord Tryion come to meet them. As is proper, Lady Sansa leads them all, gives the formal words of welcome, then greets Jon with a warm embrace. After the proper words, Brienne breaks to greet Jaime, only to find herself bent nearly backwards by his eager clinch and a kiss that is rather too deep for even a married couple given the situation.

“ _Husband,_ ” Brienne hisses, “Control yourself: we have company.” 

At this Jaime simply gives her his most wicked smile, glorying in her deep blue eyes. “Well then, no doubt they will indulge a man in coming home to his beloved wife after a long separation.”

“Well, no doubt some would. I, on the other hand…” Tyrion steps out from behind the Winterfell household’s welcome party. 

The little summer gold Jaime’s skin still holds drains instantly as he faces his brother, turning nearly as grey as his cloak. 

“Jon, King in the North: greetings from Daenarys Stormborn, the Unburnt Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, Mother of Dragons, and Queen in the South. I am Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen, Warden of the West, and Rider of the Dragon Viserion. I would parley in her behalf.”

“…Tryion?”

An opaque smile slowly blossoms across Tryion’s face as he turns to face Jaime. “Hello, brother.”

\--- 

Jon, Sansa, and Davos sweep off into the king’s solar with Tyrion. Jaime doesn’t know if he’s angry or relieved, but he’s _definitely_ gratified to see Littlefinger so annoyed. Smirking to himself, he catches Daven’s, Addam’s, and Tormund’s glance and with a subtle angle of his jaw, each peels off in a slightly different direction to deal with the horses and men. 

(It took seven battles with wights, but Tormund and Jaime have come to a grudging understanding and mutual respect and as with so many friendships born in deep aversion, they are on their way to becoming fast friends. Tormund has come to accept it was very unlikely that Brienne would have come to him any time soon with Jaime living, and Jaime has to admit the man is a sound battle leader with a good sense of humor.)

Brienne orders the resting troops to see to the horses and supplies as Jaime sidles up next to her, dispatching those returning to their rest. Brienne appoints her lieutenant to finish seeing over the final details. Jaime does the same. Without a look but in unison, they turn to the great hall but once inside, veer off to their chambers. Their greeting is longer but just as fervent (and sweaty) as their goodbye had been.

\---

Jaime’s head pillowed on her chest, they breathe peacefully, content. Finally, Jaime can’t subsume his concern in the blissfulness of the moment anymore and he has to ask. “So. You met Tyrion.” Pause. “I hear he arrived on a dragon.” Another pause. “That’s pretty impressive. I’m glad we’re already married or else I might be worried—he’s much smarter than I am and a better lord.” Another pause. “He’s also knows all the great stories. He’s a learned man.”

Brienne huffs a silent laugh. Once again, Jaime is laying his own fears and insecurities bare before her and so she tightens her arms around him, dropping a full, gentle kiss on the lovely junction of collarbone, shoulder, and humerus she can just comfortably reach and fits her lips just so. “Yes, he did ride in on a dragon. It’s called Viserion.” He freezes—he hadn’t seen the dragon and didn’t _quite_ credit it, but if anyone could talk their way atop a dragon… “It’s the cream and gold one.” He looks at her, eyes wide.

She meets his, serene. “We spoke.” He tenses in her arms and she lays another kiss, this time at that soft spot where his neck meets his jaw, forcing him to relax a bit against his instinct, curl slightly into her. “He misses you.” Jaime pulls back to meet her eyes. 

“He’s still confused—he told me himself he doesn’t know what he feels and I believe him.” Jaime raises an eyebrow. “I know, I know,” she breathes, laughing a little. “I am not a woman who knows how to read men like books, and I have not known him before, so I understand I may misread him, but Jaime,” and her eyes catch his, “His expressions, his looks, they are _so_ like yours. I know them as well as my own. Perhaps they don’t mean the same thing on his face, but…” She shakes her head, resting on his shoulder, nose into his neck, breathing him in. “I think he misses you. I think he hurts. I think he believes in his queen. I think he wants to serve. I think he wants to rule. I think he will try his best to treat with King Jon. I think he holds Lady Sansa in some regard. I think he holds _me_ in some small regard despite his anger at you for…what you made possible to happen to his love. I don’t think he will try to exact the same revenge on you. I think despite his very real wrath with Tywin, he worries about your anger about what he did to your father because he still loves you though I think he has tried to stop—he hated your sister and that you left her…that may save you. I also think he knows what it means to be able to command a dragon. And I think he will try to reconcile these as best as circumstances allow.”

Jaime swallows. For once he is the one speechless while his wife lays out the political situation and fallout. His arms tighten around her as he drops firm kisses on her temple, cheek, and then turns her to him. He tells her about what he, Jon, Tormund and the rest found beyond the Wall: that Castle Black and the other keeps of the Night Watch will not stand should the Wall fail, that despite the Lannister soldiers being better trained to warcraft, they will require quite a bit of conditioning for the weather and reduced supplies. That it will take work to integrate all their forces into something effective. 

They silently regard each other, seeing the opportunities and liabilities of the results of their respective adventures for Winterfell and the King of the North, coordinating their plans of attack for the next day. Then, business settled, they get lost in the moment of peace afforded to them in the luxury of a private chamber, each other, and featherbed knowing such things won’t be forever.

\---

At the evening meal, Jaime and Brienne find themselves at the high table in deference to Lord Tyrion’s arrival. Jaime is seated to Tyrion’s left (Tyrion himself to King Jon’s left) with Lady Mormont on his left; Brienne to Baelish’s left and Ser Davos’s right. He comforts himself that at least Brienne has one palatable tablemate. For himself, he’s still not quite convinced his brother won’t try to have him served up for a course or poison his wine. At different points in the meal, the brothers each try to start a conversation, but neither can find the words and only exchange deeply conflicted looks. Between this and the shuttered eyes of Lady Mormont, he spends most of the meal contemplating his meat. As Tyrion seems content to speak with the king while he has his ear, Jaime passes an awkward and mostly silent meal.

After dinner, there is music in honor of their guest, and Tyrion continues to find reasons to ignore his brother. Jaime is half-relieved and leaves for bed, Brienne at his side.

“Did you really not say a word to each other over dinner?” She asks after securing the door behind them, shucks off her leathers, and runs a hand through her hair.

Jaime sits on their bed and toes off his boots. “He had much to discuss with good King Jon, and all of it at too low a level for me to catch more than one word in three.”

“And did you not say a word? I know this it’s not easy, but it’s rather unlike you to not find a word or twenty,” Brienne grins down at him as she undoes the laces of his jerkin. 

“What words are there? What words could possibly be enough to set things right between us?”

“Maybe there are no perfect words. Maybe it cannot be set right, but don’t you think you have to try?” Her smile is sad and she runs her fingertips down his cheek. “I know you loved your father, but I also know you care for your brother. Your father is dead, but Tyrion yet lives. When you speak of him, I hear more love than anger in your voice.” 

He cannot help but listen to her when her eyes look like this, fond and tender for him. He sighs, “You are right. I will try.”

They finish getting undressed, blow out the candles, and Brienne uses her new-found knowledge about how to keep his mind off this worry to send him to sleep smiling.

\---

Brienne sends Jaime off in the morning with a kiss and admonition to not be craven. Asking about, he’s surprised to hear that Tyrion is alone in the godswood contemplating the heart tree. Well, if the Old Gods can get them through this latest Lannister family drama, then maybe he’ll consider converting. 

“Brother.” Tyrion turns, surprised to see that it’s Jaime who has joined him. Jaime wonders who exactly Tyrion was expecting. “You know, just because you’ve sworn your sword to King Jon for the war doesn’t mean you must take his gods as well—I rather suspect they’d toss you back.”

“And yet I am only here because I was looking for you. Do you seek their council or support for your dragon queen? Or were you seeking out a certain lady who is known to favor godswoods with her presence?”

It’s a weak opening and riposte, but they’re out of practice sparring with each other.

“I appreciate the solitude and privacy one generally finds in a godswood. They’re handy places for thinking or having a quiet conversation.” Tyrion quirks an eyebrow. “At least we don’t have the entire Great Hall pretending not to watch us while we eat.”

“I’ve had much more awkward meals. If we get through this, remind me to tell you about how I once failed at dinner with Brienne and Roose Bolton. Smaller company, but much higher stakes,” Jaime’s smile slips. “And so many more consequences.”

They are quiet a moment, and while there’s an energy to the silence, it isn’t hostile. It’s not the easy camaraderie they once had, but it’s an opening. Tyrion takes it. “I have to confess, I was surprised to arrive and not just find you here at Winterfell, but to find you married to a woman of Brienne’s unique qualities. I like her. Quite a lot. I think my queen will like her as well. Brienne deserves better, but you show a remarkable amount of sense in leaving Cersei for her.”

Jaime barks his laugher, “I agree and am still surprised—grateful, but surprised—she accepted me. I was also rather surprised to find you serving the daughter of the man whom I slayed and arriving by dragon. But then, you always _did_ appreciate the power of a dramatic entrance. I’m sorry I missed it.” Jaime’s eyes warm. “ _Dragons._ You finally found fucking dragons and _you’re riding one._ ” He can’t help but smile, which pulls one from Tyrion as well.

Then Tryion’s face turns more serious. “And you finally left our sister.” A silence. “I wasn’t sure you ever would.” He smiles a bit, but it’s seasoned with a little sadness. “I won’t deny that I’m thrilled not to have to face you on the battle field and that you’ve somehow managed to find happiness with a woman who is far too good for you…but I heard what happened. What Cersei did.” He shakes his head in wonder. “She always said father underestimated her, and in this, I think she was correct. For once.” He shakes his head and looks to Jaime. 

“Tyrion—” Jaime starts, but then stops for a moment. He takes a breath and steels himself. “Was she always mad? Was I just blind to it?” Jaime stares off, eyes unfocused, rewatching memories from years, decades ago. “Father could be cruel, but he was undoubtedly sane. Myrcella was so like Cersei before the marriage negotiations began to embitter her. Tommen,” his voice goes rough, “was too innocent to be any of us. But Joffrey…” he trails off and he almost reluctantly meets Tyrion’s eyes. “Joffrey was mad like Aerys was mad. Like Cersei was mad in the end.” He sighs, eyes distant again.

Tyrion considers his brother in silence for a while, then answers. “Father was cruel,” his eyes seize Jaime’s gaze and his brother can’t help but nod at their fire. “Cersei was always selfish and cruel. You could be too, brother, despite your love for me. I was grateful you rarely turned on me. But then, so can I be cruel: it’s a family trait, I think.” He lets a long, loud breath out, musing. “I think she fell into it. When I left Kings Landing, I would deem her sane. Spiteful, hateful, bitter, and sadistic, but sane. For all her faults, she loved her children greatly. I wouldn’t be surprised if Joffrey’s murder was the catalyst, but you would that know better seeing as I left shortly after that brat breathed his last.” Tyrion is curious if his brother will rise to the bait and try to defend his oldest child. 

Instead, Jaime sighs and shakes his head. “What a family we are: the great, golden Lannisters. And we two left: Noseless, the kinslaying dragon-riding Hand of the Queen and Handless, the kingslaying knight serving the house his own nearly eradicated. What a pair we make.” His grin is small and wry and finds his brother wearing the same. This time, the silence is a bit more at ease. Jaime finds he cannot hate his brother for his father’s murder. It’s a realization he’ll have to mull over later. “Are you happy, Tyrion? Do you believe that Daenerys Targaryen will be a good queen? Does she understand your worth?”

And now as Tyrion hears the sincerity of Jaime’s questions, those of a big brother long separated, looking for assurance that his little brother is well and happy, something loosens in him. His rage and grief at learning Jaime’s inadvertent part in Tysha’s fate lessens slightly. It doesn’t disappear, but for the first time, he thinks he might just be able to forgive his brother.

“Listen, we both know that this is going to be a long conversation that needs much wine. Shall we go inside where it’s warmer?” 

\---

Tyrion makes the slow, painful climb to the rookery. His missive to his queen must come from himself. He is almost glad of the long climb and his slow progress as it gives him time to further order his thoughts, what he’s learned from Sansa, from Ser Davos, King Jon, Brienne, and his brother. What must be done about Littlefinger. It’s all quite remarkable and if he hadn’t arrived on a dragon, he’d think it was unbelievable. Someone should write a book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, but at least it’s a long chapter so I hope that helps make up for the wait. Extra special thanks to WeirdDaydreamingFangirl for her writer’s block fairy dust and words of encouragement! I can’t tell you how much it helped motivate me to push through all this knowing that there was someone out there still following this humble effort and wanting more. :ALL THE STARS!:
> 
> I’m really not happy with this chapter, particularly Jaime and Tyrion’s reunion, which I wanted to be snappy and fun with a side of family drama, but the muse is not amused with me. Still, it’s another chapter towards completion! This is going to get more episodic because I’m ready to have this finished. But it WILL be finished, even if I’m not so happy with all of it.


	16. Start Again, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys moves north with her dragons. A very special raven arrives and is all ominous. More difficult conversations and heaping helpings of plot.

They are attending King Jon in a meeting of the large council discussing the increasing activity of the Others when Bran and Meera Reed arrive with an escort of the Night’s Watch. Sansa runs to her little brother, nearly a man grown, Jon not far behind. They dismiss the large council, a private reunion with only Meera in Sansa’s solar. While most of the lords disperse, a handful wait a respectful distance outside but still at hand. By now, Tyrion and Jaime are more at ease with each other, and Ser Davos joins them and Brienne. Lady Mormont speaks quietly with her two close retainers while Littlefinger stands somewhat apart. 

Despite protecting Sansa for a time and providing the martial force required to beat back Ramsey Bolton’s forces, he continues to be on the edge of things. Sansa has given him private assurances (and attention) enough to mollify him, and so he uses his distance to observe and being to construct new stratagems for different scenarios. He mislikes how often the Kingslayer, his whore-wife, and the Wildling brute interact with his knights and troops. What’s worse, they seem to respect them and so Petyr must needs also begin constructing a subtle campaign to discredit them to ensure his men stay loyal.

After some time, Ser Davos is sent for, and he nods his goodbyes. Tyrion, Brienne, and Jaime draw closer together. Brienne asks the question that’s been burning her. “Jaime, does he know? Do _they_ know?”

Jaime looks to her and then to his brother. “No, not unless you told them. Lady Catelyn knew, but she wouldn’t have had the opportunity to tell Sansa or Snow unless she sent them a raven I don’t know about.”

It’s a heavy weight for them all.

Tyrion sighs. “Jaime, I can’t protect you if they decide vengeance.”

Jaime replies without thinking, “I wouldn’t ask you to.” His eyes meet Brienne’s, then Tyrion’s. “I thought to kill him to save Cersei and our children. I’d do it again, probably, in that situation. While that part of me is gone, I still did it. If they ask for justice, I will not deny them.”

Brienne sidles up alongside him, and takes his hand, planting a chaste kiss on his hand and then his temple, causing him to smile softly. They share a look that is almost too intimate for Tyrion to be a party to despite the public venue.

Brienne breaks in. “We will wait and see.”

\---

It is some time later that Tyrion is sent for. They go about their usual duties. The evening meal is the informal welcoming and introduction of Lord Bran and Lady Meera to the Winterfell household. Afterward, a smallish council is called: the new arrivals with Ser Davos, Lord Tyrion, Maester Sam, Ser Brienne, Ser Jaime, Tormund, Lady Mormont, and Lord Baelish.

Bran sits between his sister and half-brother, Lady Meera seated just behind his left shoulder. The room fills one by one with King Jon introducing each council member as he or she enters. Bran regards each with large, solemn eyes after the introduction. Jaime wears his best court face, a pleasant, blank mask but he feels Bran pierce through it. For all the young lord’s mild countenance, he instantly sees that Bran knows. Bran remembers. Jaime gives a slight bow and Bran waves him in without any sort of betrayal of emotion. Brienne sits to his left so they can hold hands under the table. She feels his palm sweaty and his hand shakes slightly for a moment.

Once everyone is situated, King Jon goes to the door, quietly gives orders to the guard, and shuts the door.

“My lords and ladies: you no doubt know our joy that Lord Bran Stark has returned to Winterfell. Lord Bran has told us of his adventures with Lady Meera, and his deceased companions Lord Jojen Reed and Hodor. We grieve their deaths and are grateful for their sacrifice that Bran might return home to us.” Jon pauses. “In his travels, he has learned much about the foe that has driven us to put aside past misdeeds and unite to save Westeros. Bran?”

Bran tells them of how the White Walkers were created and how they can be slain. He tells them that they will need Daenerys’s dragons to defeat them. He warns them that the Wall will fall. Then he falls silent to study the different reactions.

Littlefinger speaks, his face the picture of a concerned uncle, “Lord Bran, this is a remarkable tale. How did you come to learn such things in your long, difficult journeys?”

“I saw them. I am a greenseer.” He turns to Jon and Sansa. “When Maester Luwin and Old Nan told us tales of the Children of the Forest, I never thought I would ever meet any.”

The room goes completely still and the silence stretches out. Those not of the north look lost (aside from Sam who has read much about the Children of the Forest and greenseers—what little has been written of them—in his studies).

Bran continues, “It means that I can see the past and futures that might be. There are many different paths ahead of us. It is my duty to see we set upon one that will ensure the survival of Westeros.” The silence lays heavy.

Taking a breath, Tyrion speaks. “I have already asked Queen Daenerys to bring her forces and join us. I hope she is on her way. I will send more ravens with this news so that she will understand the urgency of her arrival has increased.” Jon, Sansa, and Bran nod their thanks. 

Jaime finds himself speaking. “What shall we do about the Wall? If Lord Bran has seen true, it seems we have two choices: have the Night’s Watch fall back to Winterfell and help us fortify the area further or leave the Night’s Watch there so that they time enough for Queen Danaerys to arrive with her dragons and reinforcements. Neither is a comforting thought.”

A chorus of voices erupt, but after a moment of looking blank, Bran responds, silencing the other voices as he holds Jaime’s gaze, “She will arrive before her troops. She and her dragons wing their way to us as we speak.” He turns to Jon and Sansa. “We should wait until she gets here before we decide what to do next. We have more options if she is involved in developing our strategy and there are more truths that should only be shared in her presence.” 

Another weighty silence quilts the room as the council members look at each other, all eyes eventually fall on the three Starks, who share a look. Jon nods to Sansa, who stands. “This concludes this evening’s council. We will reconvene on the morrow midday. Please know your able fighting numbers and supply inventories.”

\---

Jaime sends Brienne and Tyrion off with a tight smile and a light word. His wife and brother share an uneasy glance, but let him go as they make their way to Tyrion’s solar, chatting. As heavy as Jaime’s heart is, it is somewhat lightened to see how Brienne and Tyrion have taken to each other. He knew they would. Both are people who turned their brokenness into their strength.

He finds his feet taking him to the godswood and yet again, finds it already occupied, this time by Bran and Jon Snow, talking softly, sitting side by side, Bran propped up against the heart tree’s trunk. He pauses and is about to turn away when Bran calls him over.

“Ser Jaime. Kingslayer. Come join us.” 

What can he do but obey? With heavy feet, he makes his way to them. He doesn’t know if he’s glad or not that Jon Snow is there for this necessary confrontation.

“My lord, it is good to see you alive,” Jaime says with all sincerity, Bran’s eyes staring deep into his very being. He takes a breath. “I know there are no words that can make what is between us better, but for all that, I _am _sorry. While I would do anything to protect my children and my lover, you remain one of my greatest regrets.”__

__Jon’s eyes fill with hard fire and moves to stand, his voice quiet fury as he begins to guess as he considers when and where Jaime might have met Bran. “ _What is this you speak of?_ ”_ _

__Bran touches Jon’s arm, pressing him to sit back down, eyes on Jon’s. “It is a debt owed to me by the Kingslayer.” He looks at Jaime. “And I believe he is here in large part to pay it. Lannisters always pay their debts.”_ _

__“Indeed, my lord,” Jaime hangs his head._ _

__“I didn’t recall who pushed me until I was deep into the green dreams. By then I had learned to fly and to see the different futures.” Bran’s voice is calm as if discussing the weather. “And I had already begun to see what might be in this final battle. If you hadn’t pushed me, it was much less likely that I would have fallen, and if I hadn’t fallen, I wouldn’t have found the Children of the Forest and learned the history of the Others. It was necessary.” His gaze hardens a little. “I’m not sure I forgive you yet, but when I look at the paths ahead of us, I accept my fate.”_ _

__Jon and Jaime both are speechless. Jon does not look at all mollified, but before he can speak, Bran continues._ _

__“You still have a part to play if we are to survive the winter.” He turns to Jon. “I know you’re angry with him, but we need him. Mother knew and managed to still see what he could do to help Sansa and Arya. If you execute him, we will lose many possible futures. This is one of the reasons we need to wait for Daenerys before moving forward. She will also want his head, and we need to keep him alive. There are things she needs to hear from him, and he, like most of us, still has much work yet to do.”_ _

__Bran turns back to Jaime. “Like me losing my ability to walk, it was necessary for you to lose your sword hand. It put you on a different path, one that puts you on the side of life. Keep to this path, and all debts will be clear between us.” He turns to Jon. “I understand your anger, Jon, but we need him and we need him to be trusted. _I trust him._ ” He turns to Jaime with a wry smile, “In fact, I am trusting him with my life.”_ _

__Jaime falls to his knees, and reaches for his sword to lay at Bran’s feet, but Bran stops him._ _

__“You do not need to swear yourself to me, Ser Jaime. You have sworn to Jon for the duration of the war, and that is enough. Didn’t you say something about having sworn enough oaths?”_ _

__Jaime goes white, but nods._ _

__“It is late. I think your wife is waiting for you.” As Jaime gets up to leave, Bran calls out, “You chose well in her, Ser Jaime. She is indeed worth battling a bear for, and she will keep your honor alight.”_ _

__Jaime turns, eyes wide, a wan smile on his face. He bows with a muttered, “My lords,” and strides out of the godswood._ _

__Bran turns to Jon. “I mean it, Jon. We need him. We need them all, some for longer than others. But he is one we will need for a while yet.”_ _

__Jon sighs and bows his head. “How can you trust him? I was just beginning to, but to learn what he did to you?”_ _

__“Do you remember when he came to visit us all those years ago?”_ _

__Jon nods._ _

__“Does he strike you as the same man?”_ _

__Jon shakes his head._ _

__“That’s because he isn’t. Oh, he still had honor, but it was tarnished, twisted. Lady Brienne reminded him how he might reclaim it. Had she not, we would be in even more dire straits: he would have rallied enough of the lesser houses in the south, east, and west under his sister’s rule. The full force of the Lannister army with these new additions would be marching against Daenerys’s troops with high casualties on both sides, lessening the remaining forces available to come north and join the battle here. The remaining small folk would nearly all die, either on the sword or by starvation. Even with dragons, Daenerys would take heavy loses. Without a strong fight here in the north, the Others would quickly overwhelm us and the decades of dead from the endless battles of the past years in the south would rise as wights and overtake all of Westeros in a matter of moons._ _

__“But when he left his sister, not only did he take some of the Lannister forces and provisions, he weakened her support for if her own devoted twin brother would not follow her, why should they? Especially given how many of the great houses she destroyed along with the Sept of Balor.” Bran pauses, giving Jon a considering look. “Do you trust me?”_ _

__“Of course I trust you, Bran. It’s hard this thing you ask, even knowing—and agreeing—it’s necessary. But Lannister has sworn himself to me for the war, and as his lord who accepted his service, I must honor it.”_ _

__Jon is still brooding so Bran gives him a playful shove. “Want some good news?”_ _

__“Gods, yes, please,” Jon sulks._ _

__Bran’s eyes are shining, “Arya’s coming home.” Jon stares wide-eyed at Bran and after a full moment of absolute stillness, lets loose a wild whoop that almost sounds like a wolf howl on the wind._ _

__\---_ _

__Daenerys arrives about a week later, and her two dragons greet Viserion while she goes through the more formal welcome with King Jon and Sansa, although it’s clear she wishes she could join them. Jaime is gratified to see her warmly greet Tyrion and not at all surprised by her cold gaze and tight mouth once he is introduced to her. She seems a little intrigued by Brienne, not having seen many Westerosi warrior women. The rest of the formal welcome goes smoothly. Daenerys says she estimates her forces will arrive in a fortnight or so._ _

__After she leaves to be shown her quarters with Tyrion in tow, Sansa asks Lord Baelish to please see to their stocks and work with Tormund over how the dragons might be fed._ _

__Once they leave on their errand, Jon calls Sansa, Bran, and Ser Davos over while the rest of the welcome party disperses. Bran wheels himself over (the chair that Tyrion designed so long ago, finally built) and looks at Jon expectantly._ _

__“Bran, you mentioned once that we should wait for Daenerys’s arrival before you told us more of what is to come. When shall we do this?”_ _

__“We must wait for her forces. Then we will all be here.” With that, he wheels himself off leaving them nonplussed._ _

__“Well, I guess that’s that, then,” Davos smiles. “Let us talk of more mundane matters that _can_ be spoken of now,” and the three of them retire to Jon’s solar._ _

__\---_ _

__Jon sends a raven to Castle Black to warn Lord Commander Tollett of the possibility of the Wall falling and to prepare for retreat and provides Edd with a couple of ideas. Edd’s reply is just one sentence. “You changed your mind about the Wall getting knocked down while you’re gone?” and it makes Jon chuckle to himself the rest of the day. He doesn’t want the Wall to fall—it’s really too awful to actually contemplate—but he has missed his friend._ _

__Daenerys carefully avoids Jaime. King Jon, Lady Sansa, and Tyrion all ask her to be patient, that all will be made clear. She lets them know her displeasure, but given what she has seen flying north with Tyrion to scout and test the dragons’ ability to fight wights, she practices forbearance._ _

__One day Bran finds her alone and thanks her. “Your grace, I know you seek vengeance for your father. Many here could ask the same of the Kingslayer, including myself—he’s the one who crippled me—but I have seen many futures where you and I will both be glad to have stayed our hands. Can you trust me?”_ _

__She is taken aback by Bran’s calmness and request, but something in the strange distant gleam in his eyes makes her nod her acquiescence._ _

__“I am glad.”_ _

__\---_ _

__A week later, Daenerys’s ground troops arrive. Brienne, Jaime, and Tormund meet with Grey Worm to help them get settled while Lady Sansa arranges an escort for Daenerys’s handmaiden, Missandei, and to (nearly) everyone’s surprise, Lord Varys._ _

__Most don’t know who he is, but Sansa, Jaime, and Baelish give Tyrion a hard look._ _

__“So, Lord Tyrion, you never thought to mention that Lord Varys was in Queen Daenerys’s retinue?” Sansa asks him pointedly._ _

__“Ah, it seems to have slipped my mind. It must be my advancing age.” Jaime and Sansa both roll their eyes, but Baelish’s eyes are cold and hooded. Competition._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tagging Missandei, Grey Worm, and Varys, but I don't know how much they'll have to do in this fic. I'm including them mostly because it feel like an oversight to not do so and I think they're fantastic characters. That said, Littlefinger's a great character also and I haven't really given him anything other to do than twirl his mustache while standing in the wings looking all dastardly. Definitely something I should look to improve.
> 
> Getting into the final stretch! I think maaaaybe four or five more chapters at most. Thanks to all for reading and commenting!


	17. Start Again, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya surprises her siblings, then she’s surprised herself. Bran surprises everyone. Sansa brings the receipts. Much plot.

While most of Daenerys’s forces are Dothraki or Unsullied, there are a few Westerosi amongst them. Jon is glad for the blacksmith traveling with them. He’s a large, solid young man with strong arms and few words. If he seems a bit taken aback in meeting King Jon of the North, well, even given the man’s Kings Landing accent, can’t be too unexpected. 

Brienne, Tormund, and Jaime report that her grace’s troops are settled and their animals being seen to.

Jon calls Sansa, Bran, and Davos to join in him his solar. They’re just getting settled when a serving boy he doesn’t recognize enters with wine, fruit, bread, and cheese. With all the new arrivals, a new servant isn’t strange, but one who would wear a sword, however thin, in his king’s presence?

One of the guards sounds a challenge. “Boy, what do you think you’re about wearing your blade while serving your king’s food?”

The serving boy smirks (Sansa and Davos are appalled; Bran smiles), grey eyes meeting Jon’s. “Well, you had this sword made for me so I didn’t think you’d be so angry that I still carry it.” And in a the moment where all of them must blink (except Bran), the face changes and it’s Arya.

_It’s Arya._

Jon is frozen, staring her down. Sansa gasps air like a fish out of water. Davos doesn’t know what he’s seeing and having been similarly confused before, waits for a cue. Bran is serene. Then Jon and Sansa both pounce forward and embrace their sister, Bran joining them in his time.

She smiles, but for all its joy, it has the edge of a Valyrian steel knife. 

“Jon. Sansa. Bran.”

They embrace.

\---

Jaime is making the rounds and has heard about the new blacksmith who came with the Targaryen’s army that knows how to work with dragonglass. He has fetched Maester Sam as he has earned his links and learned much about fighting the Others. 

He walks up and thinks he might even recognize the lad. It hits him: yes, he worked for Mott, but he is the spitting image of Robert Baratheon before he went to seed. Well, this war has made for many strange bedfellows, and he is happy to keep his mouth shut about that if it means they will have the weaponry needed to stand a chance in this war of winter. He does consider that he might need to warn Brienne, however.

The blacksmith looks up and there is a moment of recognition that he tries to hide, which makes Jaime pause. He sees Sam has noticed it as well. Might as well hit this head on, then. “Hello. You look familiar. You worked with Tobho Mott in Kings Landing before the world went to shit.” Jaime’s smile is wolfish. “Let’s save some time: yes, I’m the Kingslayer. I’m also sworn to King Jon for this war and had previously sword to protect Lady Sansa and Lady Arya and bring them home. I’m told you’re quite experienced in working with dragonglass, and have seen Valyrian steel being worked.”

Gendry is taken aback so Jaime continues.

“Let me introduce Maester Samwell. He is an old friend of King Jon’s and brother of the Night’s Watch. He’s a much better man than his dried up asshole of a father. He has learned much about fighting the Others, including hand-to-hand combat firsthand so listen to what he tells you.” Jaime arches an eyebrow. “He’s called _The Slayer_ for a reason. I’m sure you have much to talk about.” And with that, Jaime stalks off.

“Hello, I’m Sam,” he extends his hand, wide, guileless smile on his round face.

Gendry just looks at him for a moment, then watches the retreating figure of the Kingslayer puzzled, shaking his head. He looks back at the smiling Sam, drops his hammer, wipes his hand, and takes Sam’s. “I’m Gendry.”

Neither notices a slim shadow in the stables behind them.

\---

After Maester Sam leaves, Gendry pauses and leans against a post to contemplate all the new things he’s learned in addition to the absurdity of his life. He hasn’t gotten far when a shadow emerges from behind and declares him stupid.

“What?!” He _thinks_ he knows this voice but cannot begin to hope. Not her, not here. Not so close.

“You are _still_ stupid, but I’m glad you’re here.” Her grey eyes soften as they meet his own, and for a moment, they are both still, just looking at each other. Then they spring, arms wrapped around each other.

\---

Sansa has quarters prepared for Arya and orchestrates her reintroduction to their court, but Jon can’t wait for such niceties. When she returns from wherever she was (and he will find out), Jon follows Arya to her rooms, and when she spins to see who is behind her, they leap to each other, one hand buried in her hair, the other at her waist. Her arms are wrapped solidly around his neck and it makes him gladder than he can say that she has missed him as much as he has missed her, that despite all she has been through, she still wears the sword he had forged for her.

He escorts her to her rooms and with a quiet word, the guard standing outside, but he leaves the door cracked for propriety’s sake. 

“Arya,” he breathes. They smile so deeply into each other’s eyes, so glad to be together again and embrace longer than they can say, but it’s not still not long enough given what they’ve been through and how long they’ve been apart.

“King! You!” She laughs, truly joyful.

“It’s awful,” He looks doleful, his best Dolorous Edd impression. “All I wanted was a little glory and to be accepted.”

Arya’s hold on him tightens. “Needle saved me. You teaching me saved me.” Her eyes turn serious. “Jon, I studied with the Faceless Men. Whatever you need done, I can do.”

Jon looks at her, blank, then a little aghast. To be honest, he’s horrified.

She tilts her head. “Are you where you thought you would be when we last saw each other?” He shakes his head no.

“Well, neither am I. But it was what I needed to learn to live.” Her grey eyes spear his own. “Do you still love me? Am I still your little sister?”

He nods, unable to speak but terrified of the consequences because he sees the bald truth of her words instantly. 

She knows he needs to hear this. “I love you. I love our family. No matter what mother said, you _are_ a Stark. What you need done, I will do, and well and quietly. I will do it gladly.”

It beaks Jon’s heart because he absolutely believes her and it hurts him what she’s become. He wonders if she’ll ever be able to live a normal life again. But he also knows he needs her, not just as a beloved sister, but also for the weapon she is. He hides the tear that slips down his cheek as he gathers her close again.

\---

Arya silently slips next to Bran in the godswood and none remark her arrival aside from her brother. 

“Hello, Ayra.”

“Bran.” A pause. “How are you?”

“When I am not here, I fly, which is nice.”

Arya eyeballs him. “Truly?”

“Truly. First with ravens, now with dragons.” He smiles at her. “And sometimes, I run with direwolves.”

Arya breathes, thinks. After a time, she asks again, “How are you?”

“We stand at a crossroads. There are so many possibilities.” He catches her eye and holds it. “It doesn’t matter how we got here: those here all have a part to play and none are done yet.”

She holds his eyes a long time, and they sit in comfortable silence. Eventually, she nods.

\---

Varys slides alongside Arya as she walks the battlements. 

“I didn’t realize you were here,” He smiles. “I’m quite impressed.”

“I didn’t realize you were still alive,” she bares her teeth in a grotesque approximation of a smile.

“Touché, Arya Stark.” 

She actually growls at him and then slinks off into the shadows. _WELL._

\---

Jon and Sansa call a special council at Bran’s behest: Daenerys, Tryion, Jaime, Brienne, Arya, and Ser Davos.

Everyone knows it’s an awkward meeting given the different allegiances. Jon takes this in hand standing setting the score: “Everyone in this room is essential to us winning the war against winter: we all know that. That said, I also know that some of us have a harder time putting our differences aside for time, and not without reason.”

Jaime’s head held high, but the blank look, the fact that his left hand is under table (and Jon is sure it is being held by Brienne) makes it clear he knows he is the source of dissention. He takes a breath to speak, but Jon cuts him before he can say anything.

“Queen Daenerys. Arya.” He meets both of their eyes in turn. “Ser Jaime has sworn his sword to the battle to come and has proved his worth.” He lets loose a breath. “He’s married to Ser Brienne who saved Sansa. She is well known to be one of the most honorable warriors in Westeros.” He pauses. “What’s more, Bran insists we need him to win.” He looks at both of them. “What do we need to do to gain your trust on this matter?”

Arya and Daenerys both look blank in different directions, considering. Bran speaks. “It’s true as Jon says: we need him. He is a great ally and if you cannot find it in yourself to accept him, we are more likely doomed.”

Daenerys sits calmly to Jaime and Brienne’s surprise. They realize she’s heard this before. Despite her narrow eyes, the purple fire is banked. It’s Arya who meets Jon’s expression with fury. “Don’t you know what they did to our father? To Jory? To Sansa!?!” Arya’s rage grows with each breath.

“Yes,” Jon, Sansa, and Bran all say. She can pick the different flavors of their tones apart and it makes her hurt, how they can all be defending this man in different ways.

Sansa takes her hands. “Ser Jaime did not hurt me and Tyrion was the best of them. Cersei Lannister needed to die, but I can live if these two do as well.” There is a moment of silent communion between the estranged sisters. 

Arya smiles, and cuts her eyes to Jaime. “Well, I took care of that. That evil bitch died like her bastard son, strangled by her own blood.”

Jaime draws a sharp breath, but does not move, and otherwise his face is utterly still. 

Brienne, Bran, and Jon know what this means to him and share a look that Arya notices, but doesn’t quite know how to interpret. 

Bran speaks looking around the room. “Nearly all of us sitting here have lost something central to ourselves. Ayra lost her childhood. Davos lost his fingers. Jon lost his life. Sansa lost her maidenhead against her will. Tyrion lost his nose. Jaime lost his sword hand. I lost my legs. Daenerys lost her child.” She spears a look at Bran who shuts her down, “No, you will have a chance to learn why your father was taken, but that time is not now. I will not count our dead else we would be here for days. We have _all _lost many and much dear to us. We _will_ lose everything that’s left if we cannot band together for the fight ahead.”__

__All heads are bowed except Arya’s and Daenerys’s. Each look to Bran, Sansa, and Jon before finally nodding their uneasy assent._ _

__\---  
Sansa meets Baelish in a quiet, dark corner per his missive wearing a dark dress and hooded cloak. Baelish sidles up to her similarly dressed and speaks in a low tone._ _

__“Now the Tyrion is here with his brother and the Lannister armies, they will move against you.”_ _

__Sansa looks frightened. “At Winterfell? Surely not. I am home surrounded by my family and our forces!”_ _

__Littlefinger steps in, his arm sliding around her waist. “I will protect you, Sansa. Believe in me. You will be safe and rule here in Winterfell.”_ _

__She looks askance. “But Jon! Bran!”_ _

__He chuckles. “Did I not say to not worry? We will take back your home together.”_ _

She turns to him. “Oh, Peytr…it’s been so long. I don’t know if I can trust them anymore!” Her cool blue limpid eyes spear him through his very being and he moves even closer. “After the Vale, I don’t know if I can trust _you_ anymore.” Her eyes go cold. 

__He blinks and reaches towards her. Suddenly, a score of armed men emerge from the shadows and a Valyrian sword is held at his throat and Brienne commands him. “Stand down, Lord Baelish or I will take your head here and now for treason.”_ _

__“What did you want to see me about, Sansa?” Jon asks, striding into the room, then halting as he takes in the scene. “What happens here?”_ _

__Sansa speaks. “Your grace, Lord Baelish was trying to turn me against you and claim Winterfell for my own. He’s been trying to get me into his bed since he helped me escape King’s Landing. You know, Petyr, for a man who prides himself on reading people like books, boasts of his wit and cunning, you are remarkably bad at taking a hint.” She moves closer to him, holding his gaze. “You disgust me,” she sneers. “And also? Mother never loved you. She did make the mistake of trusting you, though, and I did the same. Well, no more.”_ _

__Littlefinger snarls, “You ungrateful bitch, you are both ungrateful bitches. You would be dead in Kings Landing without me! If I hadn’t helped Olenna kill Joffrey, you would have died at his hands, probably very slowly and painfully. If I hadn’t gotten you out of the city, Cersei would have imprisoned you until she grew bored of your suffering and had you executed. You owe me your life!”_ _

__“I owe you nothing. You wanted me. You sold me off to Ramsey Bolton—I can’t decide who was more cruel, he or Joffrey. You are not nearly as clever as you think if you thought I would forget a moment of the hell you subjected me to.”_ _

__Jon listens to all this this stony eyed. “Enough. Lord Petyr Baelish, you will stand trial for your crimes.” He turns to the guards, “Take him to the dungeons and keep this quiet: no word to anyone until we announce the trial.” He turns again. “Sansa, Ser Brienne, if you would stay. Everyone else: out. Have Ser Davos join us.”_ _

__They speak into the night planning their next steps. The trial will be held in the yard so that all the knights and senior fighters of the Free Folk may stand witness, with the Knights of the Vale in front. In the meantime, Brienne, Jaime, and Davos are to spend extra time training with them and try to gauge what reaction they will have to their lord’s execution. Sansa thinks it will be fine as the lords of the Vale thought he was a usurper anyhow. Brienne says that thus far, they’ve integrated well with the other forces and respond best to Jaime and herself._ _

__The next few days prove both Brienne and Sansa correct. Baelish never spent much time with his men, so they don’t notice he’s missing. Arya goes undercover as a squire and a stable lad to listen; she hears nothing untoward. Brienne increases her time supervising their drills to no ill effect. Sometimes she and Jaime bring their forces together to train or to demonstrate maneuvers. Together, they show what perfect balance looks like: his confidence with her doggedness; his grace with her power; his energy with her patience; his improvisation with her discipline; his skill with her strength; his speed with her endurance._ _

__After a week of this, Jon decides they have learned enough and hold the trial. Just like his father, he passes the sentence and swings the sword himself. Jon gives Brienne command of the Knights of the Vale, and Jaime command of the Lannister forces. He wants to hate the man but finds he cannot._ _

__\---_ _

__In open court, Bran wheels himself forward, Meera’s hand on his shoulder, which he holds. He surveys the gathered crowd to ensure all the necessary people are here. Their eyes catch a moment before squeezes her hand and he levels his look upon the assembled._ _

__“Lords and ladies, we find ourselves gathered here in strange times. Bitter enemies have become bosom friends.” Sansa looks at Davos who looks to Brienne who looks to Jon who looks to Daenerys who looks to Tyrion who looks to Jamie who looks to Gendry who looks at Arya although they are not bitter enemies—he just likes being able to look at her. They all bow their heads to Bran’s brittle wisdom._ _

__“There is yet one more truth to share here before we make our final march.”_ _

__All heads snap up and their eyes seek Bran’s._ _

__“To lose use of one’s legs is unspeakable. Still, to bring this truth to you today, knowing what hope it might bring us, I am…almost…glad.” Bran’s smile is darker than Sansa, Arya, or Jon have ever seen it, but it rings something in their souls and they share the fond and familiar look of siblings._ _

__“Jon Snow is not a Snow.”_ _

__The smiles drop._ _

__“Jon is of Stark blood, yes, but he is not a Stark.” The room holds its breath. “He is a Targaryen: legitimate son of Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark.”_ _

__Jaime drops to his knees. (It’s becoming a recurring theme for him, but after all, he just really wanted to serve someone worthy and heavens know he has plenty to atone for.) _”My lord,”_ he breathes. “I swore myself to your father. He told me that he would set things right once he’d settled things at the Trident.” Jaime takes a moment, his eyes wide, breathing deeply. “I am yours.”_ _

__Jon is speechless. Bran and Meera smile. Daenerys beckons Missandei to whisper to her. Sansa and Arya are quiet, but each watching a different set of courtiers without speaking. Tormund has no idea what is going on, but Tyrion, Lady Mormont, and Ser Davos are watching the room with interest at this news. Throughout it all, Brienne stands stalwart behind Lady Sansa although if her eyes go a little softer than normal at Jaime’s obeisance, no one will hold it against either one of them. Absentmindedly, Jon bids Jaime to stand._ _

__Jon looks to Sansa, Bran, and then Arya. “What does it mean?”_ _

__Arya runs to him and enfolds him her arms, “It means you _still are_ family, Jon, and we love you.”_ _

__His head is buzzing, and after a moment of blankness, Jon finds he is ready to take Jaime Lannister’s oath as it was meant. Oddly enough, it makes him feel more at peace with the man. He wonders if this change of heart is because Jon knows his father loved and trusted Jaime, even if his uncle did not._ _

__He will have plenty to think on this evening: why his uncle never told him, how his childhood would have been different had Lady Catelyn known._ _

__Daenerys approaches them, smiling. “Well, it seems we have even more reason to work together to address the threat of winter, nephew.”_ _

__Jon freezes in Arya’s arms and watches Daenerys approach. “Yes…aunt,” he tries the word and it feels strange in his mouth._ _

__“I had thought I was alone in the world, so I am grateful to not be the last of the Targaryens any longer. It is a heavy name to bear by myself.” She moves to embrace him and Arya quickly slips away. Jon allows her to wrap him in her arms, but doesn’t relax. She feels this and breaks the hug. “I know it must be a lot to think on, but I hope we might talk later.”_ _

__“Of course.”_ _

__Daenerys calls Tyrion, Missandei, Grey Worm, and Varys to follow her to her rooms._ _

__\---_ _

__Once Missandei has poured the wine and water and everyone is settled, Daenerys has Tyrion and Varys explain the implications of this new revelation to their two tasks at hand: defeating the Others and taking the Iron Throne of Westeros. Missandei shares her observations of the different relationships between members of Jon’s court._ _

__“Tryion, Varys” Daenerys asks. “As we suspected, it seems that marriage would be the most secure way to the throne as well as the least destructive. That King Jon is a Targaryen is a gift. Do you know if he has a woman?”_ _

__“I’ve not seen nor heard the hint of one currently. He used to, a wildling woman, but she is dead,” Varys replies._ _

__She ponders this. It could go either way: he may be more willing to enter into a union with her having known one once before, or she could be forever compared to a dead woman. It could be something they could bond over, having lost the loves of their youth. Still, she has long known that she would have to marry for political reasons and Jon seems like an honorable, sensible man thus far._ _

__While they try to imagine other possible alliances, there aren’t any. Had Tyrion’s brother been unwed, despite the fact that he murdered her father, she would not have been able to ignore the idea given the prominence and wealth of his house._ _

__She pauses. The man _does_ have an unwed brother, however, and Tyrion himself told her that Jon only let Jaime keep his titles and lands tentatively, with threat of stripping him of them should he not fulfill his duties as outlined in the wedding contract. And who knows who might survive a war?_ _

__She thanks them all and dismisses them for the evening. She needs to think alone on this._ _

__Tyrion is Westerosi nobility and loyal. He is smart and has never talked down to her. He has always treated Missandei and Grey Worm with kindness and respect, even when she is not present. A strong queen always weighs her options and lays many plans._ _

__\---_ _

__The next day, Danaerys asks for a private audience with King Jon._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it looks like I’m glossing over certain conversations…it’s because I am. This already is twice as long as I thought it would be. I swear I didn’t set out to write a novella length fic, but here we are. We _are_ in the home stretch though, and I have a couple of surprises up my sleeve still.
> 
> Next chapter will likely take a few days to a week. It’s outlined, but there’s a lot there and it’s stuff I want to get right.


	18. Stable Song, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the Wall came down. Final plans and preparations are made. Different groups commune a final time.

The ground shakes and a loud booming leaves everyone’s ears ringing. Those on the battlements look and see a huge cloud rising in the north. It is as Bran said: the Wall fell and things will only get worse. King Jon reckons that they will have to start patrolling for wights in earnest now.

\---

It’s only a week or so after when a contingent of the Night’s Watch arrives at Winterfell’s gates—perhaps a quarter of their numbers, Jon estimates. Lord Commander Tollett sent them shortly after King Jon’s warning to make what could be the last stand of humankind at Winterfell. It’s not as many men as Jon had hoped, and they are clearly the young and less skilled. He is disappointed but not surprised that Edd did not come himself. He wonders if he got caught in the collapse and doesn’t imagine they’ll see any more. If Edd was felled with the Wall, it is a death so unbelievably disastrous that it’s almost fitting.

\---

The large council gathers along with their knights in the Great Hall. Jon’s address is the standard sort of rallying speech about the importance of the battle. While he is not particularly good with words, the earnestness with which he delivers them makes all the difference. 

“My lords, ladies, good sers: as we prepare for the war to come, let it be known that my cousin, Lady Sansa is my heir until I produce one of my own. She has been my first councilor and an able Lady of Winterfell, so shall she remain, advised by my Hand, Ser Davos, and my cousin, Lord Bran. Sansa, you have been as a sister to me and your mother would be proud of the strong, smart woman you’ve become.” He kisses her forehead, and she smiles sadly at him. He looks to Davos and Bran each in turn, fond respect both given and received.

“As much as we must think of the immediate future with the battle in front of us, we must also plan for the more distant future, and what it is we fight for. To that end, know that Queen Daenerys Targaryen and I are betrothed. Should we both survive the battle to come, we will unite the Seven Kingdoms and make it our highest mandate to bring peace and prosperity to the realm again.”

No one is surprised: marriage is the easiest way to peace, and both of them need what the other can offer too much to ignore such an opportunity. If some are saddened by the expedient prudence of this development, they manage to keep it from their faces and bearing admirably.

The King vaving reached a stopping point, and Lady Mormont stands to address him and the room. “We salute you, your grace. You united a fractured north sundered by the machinations of the ambitious; had the foresight to bring the Free Folk to strengthen our numbers at no small cost to yourself; you made peace with hated enemies because you have valued peace and survival of the Seven Kingdoms above all. Now you join your house with another powerful house to further ensure that we all might live to see the spring. I salute you, Jon, King in the North!”

The room thunders, _JON, KING IN THE NORTH!_

Lady Mormont continues. “Queen Daenerys, despite having only just arrived in Westeros, you bring the alliances of many great houses already. You bring the renowned blades of the Unsullied. Your children are dragons of legend, lighting the fire of our hopes in the face of deadly winter. You seek to join your strength to ours that we might all live to see the spring. I salute you, Daenerys, Queen in the South!”

The room thunders, _DAENERYS, QUEEN IN THE SOUTH!_

Brienne and Jaime sit side-by-side at the end of a table near the dais. Jaime wonders at finding himself serving Targaryens again. Another war, but no small folk to worry about getting caught in the middle this time. He wonders if he has found a worthy lord to serve at last. Brienne’s lost in her thoughts as she wonders about their ability to protect Winterfell and intercept the army of wights and Others before they can get to the keep. She is glad Pod will stay to protect Sansa. It would break her heart to see him fall on the field. Her eyes turn to Jaime and she wonders if their forces will even be positioned near each other.

She reaches out and takes his hand.

\---

As they walk back to Daenerys’s chambers, Tryion thinks he _really_ should have made time to track down young Lady Mormont because she is clearly a force to be reckoned with. If he gets through this, Bear Island will need to be one of the first stops on the celebration tour. It helps distract him from his disappointment that Jon accepted his queen’s suit. He’s not surprised, and in fact, as her Hand, he would be furious had she not made the offer, but the part of himself he keeps just for himself mourns.

She draws her boon companions close, and for once, forbids Missandei to serve: she directs her to sit and let a Winterfell servant wait on her for once as she pulls her onto the divan next to her, keeping hold of her hand, causing the Missandei to duck her head and smile. 

They know this could be the last time they are all gathered together. Daenerys looks at each of them. 

Tomorrow, she and Tyrion will leave on their dragons. Grey Worm will lead the Unsullied forces, coordinating with Ser Brienne (a decision that left both Tyrion and Jaime sighing relief). Missandei will stay to serve with Varys as Daenerys’s proxies on the Small Council. 

But for tonight, they sit near to each other close to the fire drinking some of the last good wine left in Winterfell, remembering moments of how they got here, whispering hopes for the future, and each trying to engrave this moment forever for none are naïve enough to think that they will all be gathered like this again. 

\---

Jon calls Sam, Tormund, and Davos into his solar before he goes on to sit with his family. Each represents a different point in his unwanted journey to the northern throne, and he loves them each for their own merits. 

He is glad to know that Sam will be here at Winterfell to support Sansa and help the wounded and work with Gendry to develop new weapons against the Others. He suspects Sam will be one of the greatest maesters in history, for if ever a man was born to that vocation, it is him. He is also glad that he has Gilly and Little Sam. If he and Daenerys survive, perhaps they can install him as Grand Maester and rewrite the rules for if anything, Sam has shown that love and a child do not prevent one from feats of great learning.

He is glad knowing Tormund will be going into battle at his side once again but fears for him. He thinks back to when they first met in Mance Rayder’s tent, how he was the first to welcome him. (He thinks about what he had to do to gain the trust of the Free Folk, but doesn’t dwell on it: what’s done is done and in the end, he died for it.) Like Sam, Tormund is an unexpected friend.

He is glad Davos will be staying with Sansa, Sam, and the others. The man’s a decent fighter along with being an excellent advisor, so he’s another strong arm sure to be near her to protect her should things come to the worst. He considers and thinks that Ser Davos is one of the most decent people he knows—him and Ser Brienne—perhaps the only two people aside from the Starks of whom his fath— _uncle_ —would approve of. Generally. If he didn’t think too hard.

He calls for wine and then dismisses servants and guards and the four sit close to the fire as they trade tales and spend one last night all together in the warm.

\---

Jon might be a _little_ tipsy after leaving Sam, Tormund, and Davos. (They were still at it when he left, and even if it was some of the last of the wine, it was so worth it to see Sam drunk.)

He knows this will be harder for he goes while the rest of his siblings— _cousins_ —stay. Arya near threw a fit, but he made her see that she was the best blade to protect Sansa, that an assassin’s refined skills do not translate to the brutal sloppiness of a battlefield, that as a young woman, she’ll be underestimated by any human forces making her that much more dangerous, and will be a comfort to Sansa as her sister. He wins her over in the end, but with strong reservations. Oh, he will miss Arya who ever loved him, even when he was her bastard brother, not her royal cousin or king. Truly, he is the sister of his heart and it both comforts and terrifies him to leave her behind.

Sansa is as poised as ever, but in these past months, he has learned to read her calmness. He can tell she is anything but, and tells her that they are all family: she need no longer pretend. She smiles blankly—out of habit, he thinks—and slowly, her expression changes into something unguarded and raw and she gathers them all into her arms around Bran where they sit leaning on each other at the fire, sharing memories, laughing, crying for those they’ve lost.

Throughout it all, Bran looks to each of them in turn. Knowing he can revisit this moment at will is not a true comfort having finally learned that lesson from the Three-Eyed Raven, but it’s more than he knows the others have. He tries to ignore the inexorable narrowing of paths in front of them as they speak and share and touch and when he leaves, he wheels himself out for fresh, cold night air and runs into Jaime Lannister.

Jaime is surprised that Bran has words for him, but he listens.

\---

Jaime, Brienne, and Pod sit in Brienne and Jaime’s chambers at the fire. Jaime’s managed to wheedle a couple of astonishingly good flasks of Dornish red from his brother for the occasion (his patrimony, he laughs).

He raises his cup, “Well, here’s to the best knight and squire in the Seven Kingdoms!”

Even though they haven’t even started drinking, Brienne and Pod both choke a little, touched to be saluted so by Jaime because they love him. He tries to lighten the mood because he has _no_ intention of the three of them spending what will likely be their last night together crying. He grimly thinks that there will surely be plenty of time for tears for them all if any of them get through this madness. There will be _laughing_ , godsdammit.

“Pod,” he says, “Only you could start of squiring for some of the sorriest mistakes of knights in Westeros—which explains how you ended up serving my sweet brother, not a knight; and Brienne, who was then also not a knight—only to end up here, at the end of the world as we know it. That’s some pretty remarkable service, wouldn’t you say, wench?” 

This makes Brienne break out of her maudlin humor like he thought it would, rolling her eyes at him, but then they soften again as she turns them to Pod. “Yes, Jaime. Pod has been a remarkable squire in service not only to his lords and ladies, but to the realm.”

“I think that warrants some sort of distinction, don’t you? Consider his deeds: saving my brother at the Battle of the Blackwater, assisting you save Lady Sansa, and other good works since?”

Brienne’s already bright eyes shine even more as she takes his meaning, and gods, he feels his love for her run through him like a sword. He wants to make her eyes shine like that forever.

She breaks his momentary paralysis. “Yes, Jaime, I think you’re right. Hmmmm. Pod. Would you come here?” 

He gets up, dusting off his trousers, not sure of all this fuss despite being incredibly content.

Brienne oh-so-slowly draws Oathkeeper, and lets it hang down. “Pod?”

“Yes, Ser My Lady?”

“Kneel. Do you swear before the eyes of gods and men to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect all women and children, to obey your captains, your liege lord, and your king, to fight bravely when needed and do such other tasks as are laid upon you, however hard or humble or dangerous they may be?”

Pod’s eyes widen as he recognizes these as the same vows his Ser-My-Lady swore when she was finally knighted. He knows they’re not quite the usual words, but he’s too glad to speak the same words as she did. 

Brienne touches his shoulders with Oathkeeper. “Rise, Ser Podrick.” He does and her beautiful, solemn eyes meet his, smiling. She embraces him and Pod wraps his arms around her, sobbing his happiness. Jaime laughs, embracing them both and whispers in Pod’s ear, “Good lad. Take care of Sansa and Arya now, as we must leave, good ser. Keep our oath.” Pod sobs even harder and tucks his face into Jaime’s shoulder. Jaime smiles, tightening his arms around them, slightly shaking his head and he catches Brienne’s eyes, warm sapphire pools full of love. He smiles back, a happily drowning man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was all the group farewells; we’ll get one-on-one goodbyes in the next installment. J/B folks, there will be something here for you, I promise! Thanks for sticking with this fic that ballooned waaaaaaay beyond where I thought it would! Hopefully it's still a decent read.


	19. Stable Song, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Many partings, some more drawn out than others. 
> 
> (Smut in the final section in case there are any who care to skip such things.)

By chance Sansa and Tryion find themselves alone for the moment. They smile guardedly at each other.

“Time for the final bout, my lady,” Tryion bows to Sansa, who finds herself returning it with a sincere, elegant curtsey.

Locking eyes, he reaches for her and she places her hand in his like a bird alighting. They are frozen for a timeless moment, both are surprised to find themselves with tears streaming down their faces. Sansa sinks down to her knees—the first time she has ever done so for Tryion, for not even on their wedding day did she do such—and embraces him. They soundlessly clutch at each other, remembering their defeats, their victories, when each of them were sundered from their beloved family members and were utterly alone, both just trying to survive. Sansa smoothes back Tyrion’s hair and lays a gentle kiss on his forehead. She holds his eyes, which are confused but not opposed to this turn of events. 

“Jon and your queen are betrothed for the sake of peace. I hope they both come through the final battle. But if not, if it comes to this, if this is what we need for peace, if we survive, I won’t mind.” She breathes running her hand down his cheek, her look solemn. “You were the best of them.” She kisses him again, featherlight, this time on the mouth. It reminds him of Tysha and unbidden, a bit of Brienne: the blue of Sansa’s eyes is colder, but just as bright as his goodsister’s. “I won’t mind.”

\---

“I want to go with you and fight.”

“There will be plenty of fighting here, Arya. Think,” Jon says, seizing her face in his hands. “I’m taking Brienne, Tormund, and Jaime. Who else will protect Sansa while we’re gone? Or Bran? It _has_ to be you,” he sighs. “How could I leave without knowing you stood watch?” He looks off, Ghost snuffling at something, Nymeria nudging him. It makes Jon and Arya smile, relax a measure.

“If the dragons fail, if _we_ fail, Sansa will need you,” his eyes meet hers, cold grey to cold grey, wolfish. “She has already lost so much and will likely lose more. She needs all that she can to be an anchor to help hold her.”

Arya meets his eyes, nods, tears streaming, holding him tight.

\---

Jaime begins walking back to his quarters, flagons in hand and breathes slowly, deeply. 

He runs across his brother walking to his chambers clearly moved by something. Normally he’d leave him alone, but this is not the night for such discretion. No one rests easy and no one takes tomorrow for granted. He calls to Tryion.

The raw look in the brother’s eyes showing this has not been an easy night for him either.

Jaime holds a wineskin out and they huddle against the battlement wall, curling into each other and recall the best and worst of being the sons of Tywin Lannister. They do not speak of Cersei.

“So, you’re going to ride a dragon.”

“I won’t mind.”

Jaime laughs loud and easy. “You only ever dreamed of riding a dragon!” He smiles wide at his brother and it turns sad. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I love you, Tyrion.”

“I love you, too, Jaime, but our autumn sun is setting. We’re not who we used to be.”

“No, but in the final bout, I want you to know…I am with you.” Jaime huffs. For all that he made the decision so long ago it seems, it still hurts him to say it. “I chose Brienne. And you. I chose _you_. I chose you both and I am so glad.” Jaime’s eyes burn like green glass lanterns, so much warmer than the wildfyre Tyrion so often saw in Cersei's eyes when she looked at him.

Tyrion takes his brother’s hand and kisses it.

\---

Jon knocks on Sansa’s door. She opens and he walks through. He takes her hands. “Sansa, I can’t know what’s coming, but know I will do everything to keep you, Arya, and Bran safe. You are my heir because I trust you to do what you need to keep all you safe.” He looks down. “I know we have had our differences,” and he looks up again, “But I love you and will do my utmost to protect you and our family.”

They look at each other in silence for a while in the warmth of the fire, neither moving, but both tensed as if to do so. Then he peels off and closes the door behind him.

\---

Brienne and Pod sit by the fire, each sharpening their blades waiting for Jaime to come back from his rounds as this is his watch. Brienne is struggling to find the right words. She is leaving Pod for the first time in so long. He is not the child she met so long ago, but they have both known such pain; the gift of memory can be such an awful curse.

“Rest easy, justified, Pod.” He looks to his Ser My Lady with the incredulousness of youth. “I know it’s harder to wait behind to guard, but Lady Sansa and Lord Bran need to be sure of your sword. Ser Davos will be counting on you. Jaime, Tormund, and I would not be able to go ahead without knowing you’re here holding the fort, Pod.”

Pod looks deep into the fire and takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders and says as much to himself as to Brienne. “I won’t mind.”

\--

Jaime slips back into their chamber to find Pod gone. He’s a bit quieter than normal, but reaches out to Brienne instinctually with his right arm (still), and she grasps his forearm with an equally reflexive caress. They fold into each other. He notices the large steaming bath and swallows a laugh, but then lets it loose, loud and free because who knows how many more are left to them?

Brienne, his wife, is smiling at him with such a soft, deep, love in her eyes it nearly undoes him as he stands there. She gently strips him. He gently strips her, and knowing her as he does, he lays reverent kisses and touches as he goes lest she clam up, shut down, second-guess her worthiness because they truly have no more time. He licks the scars the bear gave her almost as if cleaning the wound it once was, enjoying the uneven flesh against his tongue. While their relationship had shifted before the bear pit, he thinks that it was what cemented the change and the path they find themselves on now and drops a lingering kiss before lifting his head and eyes up to hers.

Finally, they are both standing naked before each other. Again. Time for the final bout. Again.

He pulls her into the tub, much smaller but also much cleaner than their first. And this time, he doesn’t have to hide his arousal from her, and neither does he feel the need to push: they can rest easy justified in their desire. It’s a slow burn as they both enjoy remembering their first bath together. While Jaime thinks it’s their first sword fight that _truly_ broke down the walls between them initially after their long dirty road trip of hateful quips, they both recognize it was sometime between the battle on the bridge and the baths at Harrenhal that they’d truly called a truce.

She sighs into the heat enjoying the clean heat of the water, and the firm, dynamic heat of his arms around her and instinctively flexes herself against him as she settles herself into the tub. His hard length fits just so, so close to where they both want it, but they also know this will likely be their last night together in any kind of comfort—or perhaps at all, so they are not ready to let things end so simply. It takes all her will to not just stand again and lower herself on him. It would be so easy to spear herself on him to their equal bliss, but she resists. Like him, she wants to draw it out, enjoy it while they can.

They just sit in the water together for a while, quiet, Jaime nosing the column of her neck, Brienne running one hand along his right arm and running the other up and down his leg. Then she finds she cannot wait any longer and turns to him, water splashing, capturing his face in her hands and kisses him slowly but forcefully. He tightens his arms around her and leans into it, opening her lips with his tongue. 

Standing up, water sluicing down both of them, he grabs a towel and with strong, sure strokes, dries her starting from her head, down her neck and shoulders, her breasts, until he has to crouch and then her buttocks, strong legs and feet. As he passes the towel over her, he admires yet again the strength of her body, the scars she wears and how they tell the tale of their lives. He knows not all of her strength lies in her tall, well-muscled form, for her heart is stronger yet, having carried his secrets without complaint or (much) judgment for so long.

Brienne returns the favor, taking the opportunity to marvel that this beautiful man is her husband, that he loves her and tells her so with every look and touch. She tries not to think of what the morrow might bring but instead stay firmly in the moment. 

As she sinks down to her haunches drying him, his jutting cock helps anchor her in the here and now. Rolling her eyes up at him and smiling a little wickedly, she takes him in her mouth in one fell swoop, a now practiced move that she knows will make him catch his breath. His left hand cradles her head gently as she licks him, catching _that_ spot under the head _just so_ with her broad, plump lips. The powerful sensations make him want to close his eyes to further concentrate on them, but he does not let himself. No, he will watch and try to burn this experience forever in his mind to carry it with him. He feels himself begin to lose control, so his right arm gently taps her shoulder. She stops and allows herself a final swirling lick before she rises.

He takes her face in his hands and simply gazes at her a moment, her freckles nearly lost in her deep flush, her impossibly blue eyes shining and dark with lust. His heart almost hurts with the love he bears her. He runs his nose up against hers, nuzzling a moment before kisses her deeply, moving her towards their bed, laying her down, nudging her legs apart with his own, and sinking down her body, giving her a strong lick that takes her breath away. _We always have given as good as we got with each other,_ he smiles to himself as he adds a finger, then two as he works her nub with his lips and tongue. He gazes up at her and like him, she does not allow herself to throw her head back in abandon as she normally does: she is watching him, savoring this, his mouth on her, his eyes hungry for her and when he feels her shudder from the inside out, his heart leaps and his cock twitches. Giving her a final few good licks for good measure, he wipes his mouth on his right arm and positions himself above her. Her legs wrap around him and eyes locked, he positions himself just at her entrance.

They take a moment that feels almost timeless, gazing at each other, breathing heavily together before with a nod, he thrusts and she lifts her hips to meet him. Fully seated in her, eyes still holding, they stop and feel. They have now done this together enough times that there is none of the tentativeness that came with their first time. He thinks about how he could practically see Brienne pushing away her doubts and fears that night, trusting him fully with herself. Perhaps she is thinking something along similar lines because she curls up to kiss him gently and he feels her tighten around him and his heart tightens.

“I love you, Brienne. So much.”

“I love you, too, Jaime. _So much._ ” She reaches up and tucks a lock of hair that has fallen into his face behind his ear, stroking down his cheek. While they have always put their marriage bed to good use, she never stops feeling a sense of wonder to find herself here with Jaime, that he loves her as much as she loves him. That they have somehow made it this far, that such a fate could be possible.

And then with the further implications of that thought being too sad for this moment, she begins moving, and always a strong duelist, Jaime matches her. It’s clear he wants to draw this out, so when she notices him tiring, she flips them so she is astride him. 

He loves watching her ride him; it lets him watch more of her as they move, appreciate her athleticism. Finally, he feels himself reaching his peak. His left hand, no longer as clumsy as it once was, moves to where they are joined, his thumb placed just so that after a few more passes, it pushes her off the edge, which sends him following.

She collapses on top of him, moves to roll off to the side, but he holds her there a moment, glorying in the weight and pressure and scent of her slick body. She buries her face in his neck, and he knows she is scenting him. It makes him tighten his arms around her. Finally, he allows her to roll off and tucks her into his right side so he can touch her face, neck, and shoulders with his left. He wonders at how they got here. How _he_ got here, married to Brienne at Winterfell, serving one of his family’s greatest enemies. Content.

“I’m glad we’re here. I don’t know how this will end—if this will be our end, Westeros’s end—but I’m glad if any of it has to end, that I am with you, that we had this.”

“You’re being maudlin, Jaime.” Brienne can pretend she isn’t feeling as fatalistic herself if she can chastise Jaime for the same.

“Oh, probably,” he smiles at her. “It is my sincere hope that we all shall somehow manage to survive this, have a brood of warrior children on Tarth who become the finest knights in all of Westeros—boys and girls both—and die of old age. It’s something to fight for, to live for.”

Whatever words Brienne had thought to come back with stick in her throat and instead settles for cuddling more closely into Jaime’s side and smiling as he tightens his arms.

“Yes. We’ll see, won’t we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Countdown: Two, maybe three chapters left.
> 
> Worked in more song lyrics than I normally do this time—they were too perfect. Hopefully the repetition throughout makes the different conversations feel connected, and not hokey or repetitive. Let me know if it worked or didn’t!


	20. What Sarah Said

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne makes a hard decision. Bran finds unexpected reinforcements.

As she stares across the way to where Jaime stands opposite with his troops, Brienne thinks about all that happened last night and takes her fill, drinking in the sight of her husband across the yard flanked by Addam and Daven. They hold each other’s eyes until King Jon sounds the horn. Jon, Daenerys, and Tyrion soar into the winter winds, fighting it with dragon fire as they range ahead as the vanguard.

Tormund, Jaime, Brienne, and Grey Worm meet each other’s eyes as they stand at the head of each of their companies. Tormund raises his axe and raises a great battle cry. Jaime and Brienne raise their swords and voices in turn (Grey Worm just raises his spear—he and his men are professionals and don’t need such uncivilized encouragement), each leading their forces into the field.

\---

She doesn’t know if it’s hours, days, or months since she left when she finds herself back in Winterfell’s walls; wounded, but not fatally so, but she can’t say the same for Tormund who is slung over her shoulder. Thinking back, she and Jaime lost sight almost immediately, their forces divided, supporting the Free Folk and Unsullied respectively, marching in opposite directions. But day and night have little meaning when fighting she has learned, and even less so when magic keeps the very sun out of the sky.

Her company has seen heavy loses despite Gendry’s excellent dragonglass weapons. She chases the ghosts of the dead with images of Jaime’s look at her in their bed, again before they left, hearing his hard advice given in as quiet and as low a tone as she’d ever heard as he tightened her horse’s girth one handed. “You _will_ lose men. Here? You will lose _many_ men, no fault of yours. As a commander, all you can do in the end is make sure that their deaths are worth it and that they know they did not die in vain. Think always on the goal, what we need to achieve.” His face softens. “Who we need to protect.” With that Brienne finds herself seized by Jaime and completely surrendering to him, their eyes and then their lips locked for that last time.

She flashes back to the here and now, numbing snow flurries nearly as soft as Jaime’s first kisses had been, bearing this precious burden. She has indeed lost most of her men, but the battle has been long fought and their forces absolutely are giving better than they got. That said, unlike their foes, they are human and need to rest. She has at least brought this man and the remainder of their fighters back to regroup.

Step by heavy step through the deep snow, she thinks the glorious battle, the shining chivalry she imagined as a girl, never existed. And she has already learned this a while ago. But this? This moment, carrying an honorable man who had her back before necessity dictated it, loved her for who she has always been, fought to near his last against the foes of the living, rallying both their decimated forces around them. That must be worth something and it steels her to continue pushing forward as her limbs want to succumb to the cold and lack of energy.

Feeling this, she grunts, “Come on, Tormund. You can make it. You did not survive so long as to die south of the Wall before the battle has been won!” He is quiet and she grows more concerned. “You must lead your people, make sure these crazy southron pillocks don’t take advantage of them!” She stumbles through the gate that thunders shut behind the last of her forces, and her voice rises a bit when she gently lays him on a table, gently running her hands along him, trying to identify major wounds or broken bones. She breathes a sigh of relief when Sam finds them and repeats the same ritual. Only when he’s done, after smiling at Tormund and giving him a draught to ease him, when he catches Brienne’s eyes, the young, sweet maester’s expression turns sad. 

Once Tormund is finally sleeping, an uneasy, wheezing rest that Brienne likes the sound of not at all, she pulls Sam aside. 

“Sam. Tell me.” And it’s like he’s facing Jon. He trusts her to his soul and cannot lie to her.

“He _may_ live. But it’s unlikely. Very unlikely. His wounds are substantial.” Sam sighs, looking away a moment, then taking Brienne’s gaze. “What do you want to hear?”

Brienne looks at Sam blankly. “What do you mean, ‘What do I want to hear?’”

“Well, we can help him die as comfortably and peacefully as we can manage. Or if you—and he—agree, I can give him a final burst of energy to go back out there.”

It takes a moment or ten for Brienne to begin to understand what Sam is saying and she’s absolutely horrified.

But then she began to think of things from Tormund’s perspective, as well as she can. He and his people would prefer him to go down fighting, yelling to the last if that’s his fate. 

She would prefer to give him whatever comfort she can given his short time. She takes a deep breath and blinks back her tears.

She looks to his lieutenants, to his slack face, and then orders them to help hold the North Gate. 

Lady Sansa and Lord Bran arrive. They reinforce Ser Brienne’s orders, Lady Sansa sitting next to Tormund and Lord Bran following Lady Brienne as she strides aimlessly across the yard. She hears the sound of his wheels against the sand and stops and faces him.

“I don’t think I can save him. Or them.”

“No, you can’t, Brienne.”

His bald statement makes her catch her breath.

“This war, even if it has what we might call a happy ending, already means thousands upon thousands dead.” He sees the weight further settle on her shoulders. “Brienne, truly, would he want to die here in our laps or facing the enemy?”

She snuffles. “He would want to be in our laps but still save the day.” She sees young Lord Bran’s small sad smile.

“He cannot have both. Not now.” He tilts his head. “Neither can you.”

She catches her breath and it is a sob.

“Decide, Brienne. This decision has weight: whether he dies quietly here or loudly back in the fray.” Bran’s smile is warm and sad. “Either way, say goodbye, Brienne,” and he turns himself around. 

Truly, only Bran could drive her to such a decision.

As she takes a deep breath and steeling herself to the decision and hating herself, Bran calls out from behind her, “There is still much work to be done and whatever the outcome, you are still a key actor.”

\---

She stands there smelling the astringent scent of a maester’s quarters as he fusses over Tormund. He reiterates much of what Lord Bran said: he can live quietly (if they all survive) or he can be fortified and go out fighting.

She will not, _cannot_ make this decision. Not when he is a brother in arms. Not when he is the undisputed leader of his people. Not when he was the first man she had ever met who accepted and appreciated her for herself on first sight. As naive as Brienne is, even now, she recognizes that Tormund is holding the Free Folk together, both as a fighting force, but also a political one. For if she were one of them, would King Jon care about them so without Tormund?

As she turns over such thoughts, resting, getting ready to go back out, Tormund seizes her hand and her eyes.

“I heard the crow. I’m not long for here.”

Her eyes fill against her will. 

“If that’s how you feel, lass, send a dying man your heavens now before he goes for good. I’ve enough strength,” he leers, both of them knowing the truth but he wants to see her smile.

Her eyes widen and smacks his uninjured shoulder without thought, causing him to laugh, then cough.

“I can feel it, lass. I’m not going to last long,” He sighs without regret or self-pity. He takes her hand, forcing her to look at him. “We Free Folk, we expect to die young. We’d rather die fighting.” He turns her hand over, considers it, looks up at her. “If this is the end of the world, I want to go with my axe in my hand and taking every last cold arsed bastard out with me if it means you and my people will live. Just promise you’ll speak for them in case something happens to Jon.” 

Brienne feels the warmth in Tormund’s eyes, feels the strength in his hand. She breathes deeply, clutching both his hand and his gaze. “If that is your will.”

Bran melts from the shadows, face blank. “Witnessed. The Starks will see it so.” He turns to Brienne. “And you will not fight the dead alone.”

Brienne swallows and calls for Sam. She explains. He looks to Tormund, Brienne, and Bran, sees their set expressions, and prepares the draught.

Tormund finds new strength in his limbs and slowly manages to stand on his own power.

Brienne lays a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I see you, Tormund.”

Tormund touches her face oh so gently, smiling oh so gently. Bran and Sam stand by quiet, glad to be in the shadows.

“It’s a saying of the Free Folk: love is watching someone die,” he smiles sadly. “Thank you.”

\---

They are readying to go out again when Bran calls her aside. “Brienne, I’m sending reinforcements with you, but you must ready your men.”

She raises her eyebrows, confused. Where is he getting the men?

“The Others have raised an army of the ignored, unhonored dead. The North remembers. We forgot why, but we kept to the Old Gods and old traditions, one of which was to bury our greatest in the crypts beneath Winterfell, armed.”

Brienne’s eyes grow wide as she begins to understand what Bran is telling her.

“They have been waiting to be called into the final battle. With the Wall down, I am sure this is the time. They will come when I call, a greenseer and a Stark, and will fight beside you, sworn as you are to the Lady of Winterfell.” He smiles. “Look for my Uncle Benjen, Coldhands, now. Most of them will be too long dead to speak, but he might have some words of advice for you.”

With that, Bran pivots his chair and wheels away, Brienne’s mouth hanging open, catching the snow. 

\---

They stand there a moment before they square their shoulders as they stride out past the gates into the fray, weapons drawn. Her men are too tired and too numb to be anything but cheered by their ghastly reinforcements which slowly begin to turn the tide. She pretends not to cry as she watches Tormund fight mightily, a whirlwind of dragonglass axe until eventually, a mounting snowdrift rising about him, he is cut down, taking many wights with him before an Other runs him through from the side. She bellows a war call, scattering a score of wights with the torch in her left hand and slaying the Other who stands gloating above his body with Oathkeeper in her right.

A dry, wrasping voice, not unlike her horrible childhood septa whispers in her ear, and she _swears_ is says, “Who’s going to watch you die?” She spins and elegantly spears the Other on Oathkeeper, exploding into ice crystals that catch the muted light, a quiet rainbow.

Her heart hurts and fractures and she wonders if this is how ice feels when it cracks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t recall where I first heard/saw someone posit that the reason the Starks keep their dead in a crypt under Winterfell and armed was so that they could rise against the Others when needed. It’s not my idea, but it’s _really_ interesting and if you point me to whomever thought it up, I will be more than happy to credit them!
> 
> Also, this song, man. If you’ve ever watched someone die in a hospital, well, I found it spot on.


	21. I Will Follow You Into the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime reflects on his conversation with Bran from the night before as he prepares to lead the Lannister forces.

Jaime can’t help but get lost in Bran’s words to him the previous night, that the paths were collapsing, concentrating into fewer roads, the different branches of what might be. He spoke to Jaime of the three ends that looked most likely at the moment. It’s both a gift and a burden, but he figures he owes Bran this subtle revenge and will help him bear this knowledge so that he does not have to carry it alone.

\---

“The first possibility is death,” Bran says flatly, as if he were remarking on the weather. “We lose one dragon almost immediately, which the Night King takes for his own, felling the other two, taking with them Daenerys, Jon, and Tyrion who rise as wights. 

“Tormund and the Free Folk fall, despite reinforcements. Because this is the Long Winter and the Night King revels in such things, it falls to our commanders to slay the wights of those they loved. Grey Worm ignites Daenerys as she mortally wounds him; she is no longer The Unburnt. He sinks to his knees sad to leave Missandei, but glad to not have to live with the knowledge that he has had to slay his queen, even if she is undead. Brienne’s tears freeze on her cheeks as she sets fire to Jon, dancing away from his attacks before she takes your sword so you can take the torch and face your sweet brother’s walking corpse, eyes no longer mismatched but shining a cutting blue.

“The Others stand back, allowing their army of wights to overcome our ground forces. The three of you fight back-to-back with Ser Daven. First Daven falls, then Grey Worm. Then you. Then Brienne is last. The wights halt and the shining stare of the Others surrounds her. They are waiting. The Night King emerges again and gazes at her. Brienne has no doubt that he wants her to have time to recognize the impossible odds she faces and despair. Little does he know that death does not frighten her: her _life_ has been about confronting impossible odds, dealing with overwhelming pain, and persisting nonetheless. And for all the pain she’s faced, she has also known more love and joy than she ever expected once out of girlhood. Her clear sapphire eyes meet his glacier blue eyes unblinking, unbowed, and standing over your body, she murmurs, ‘Love of mine, I fear I’ll be close behind and follow you into the dark.’ She squares her shoulders and adjusts her grip despite the tears pouring down her cheeks and yells her defiance.

“She falls, as do the rest of the ground forces. Then the Others themselves take Winterfell leaving the wights outside. Gendry falls, then Ser Podrick who takes down three. He dies thinking perhaps his Ser My Lady would be proud despite his failure. She is the closest thing to a mother he has known. Then Ser Davos falls, worrying for Marya but somewhat buoyed at the thought of perhaps seeing Dale, Allard, Matthos, and Maric again. Arya springs from the shadows and slays five Others with the dragonglass foil Gendry created especially for her, until the Night King himself slays her. Sansa faces him alone sitting in father’s chair, clutching a dragonglass dagger. Her recent lessons are not enough to save her or the realm. First the north falls, then Westeros, then the world. We are all taken by the dark.”

\---

“I see another future where many of us die, but enough live to defeat the Others. We lose one dragon in the first fortnight of fighting—Rhaegal—and Jon falls with him. The Night King raises Rhaegal and Jon Snow both as wights. The dragon-wight keeps the other two dragons from attacking the Night’s King’s forces as they concentrate on it. 

“Tormund falls as do the better part of the Free Folk and Knights of the Vale.” Jaime goes white. “Brienne persists, though, and she finds some unexpected help from the Stark forces. Uncle Benjen finds her and they rally the remaining, living and dead and defeat it.” Bran smiles slightly at this but Jaime can’t fathom why exactly. The boy catches his gaze. “If we manage to win the war, whatever the sequence of events, Brienne always lives.” Jaime feels a rush of gratitude: this is a gift, a benediction from Bran, who sighs then, “Just as some always die, no matter the outcome. War and winter are both cruel.

“Her forces guard the North Gate and eventually continue to push north. Drogon and Viserion finally corner the dragon-wight amongst the remaining Lannister forces. It slays Ser Addam along with two score of your men. Daenerys and Tyrion are free to provide cover to the remaining Unsullied and Lannister forces that you and Grey Worm manage to rally, Brienne joining her forces with yours. The dragons take down most of the remaining wights before they are overwhelmed in turn. Daenerys and Tyrion manage to escape in the confusion, but not before Daenerys must order Drogon to set fire to wight-Jon’s company of wights.

“Grey Worm strikes the first blow against the Night King, badly wounding him; but he returns the attack, and Grey Worm falls. You avenge him and finish his work, stopping the armies of the Winter, but you are mortally wounded in the process. Brienne finds you before you fade.” Bran sighs, quiet. “You die in her arms.” Jaime’s eyes are calm, accepting of this fate. It’s not a bad way to go, not if it means Brienne lives, Westeros lives. It’s a cleaner death than he thought he’d get these past few years.

“The folk in Winterfell fare better than the soldiers, but also take losses as some of the Others attack with a company of wights. Many guards fall. Gendry is badly wounded, survives, but will never be a blacksmith again. Ser Davos is killed protecting Sansa and Bran; Arya and Ser Podrick slay his killer to avenge him.

“Daenerys legitimizes Gendry and names him lord of Storm’s End, much to his consternation. But knowing he will never wield a hammer again with any power and that it means he and Arya may wed, he bears it. 

“The reconstruction is not an easy thing and the Seven Kingdoms are no longer strongly united. Daenerys is crowned queen. She declares Sansa Stark her heir in recognition of Jon Snow and House Stark’s contribution to the War Against Winter. Tyrion, Lord of Casterly Rock, remains her hand. Missandei, Lord Varys, and Grandmaester Samwell serve as standing members of her Small Council. Sansa and Brienne come to the capital when great matters are to be discussed. 

“She makes overtures to the Martells and the remaining, lesser members of the great houses. Arianne Martell joins court for a while. It is an uneasy visit seeing as the queen’s dragons killed her brother, but it gives her more leverage to push for a marriage between Daenerys and her little brother, Trystane—alive because Prince Doran saw through Cersei’s clumsy ruse. If it bothers Tyrion—for whichever reason—he wisely says nothing: he knows the importance of this potential alliance. Dorne needs to be brought back into the fold.

“Lord Willas Tyrell, Lord Edmure and his Frey wife are invited, as is Lord Robert Arryn. Lord Gendry and Lady Arya make a dutiful appearance. 

“Daenerys, Tryion, Varys, and Missandei weigh the marriage possibilities. The gods are laughing at them as the only two single eligible men are Lord Willas and Prince Trystane: marrying either would only fan the flames of ancient hostility between House Tyrell and House Martell. (Nobody talks about little Lord Robert of the Vale, and thankfully, little Lord Robert—and his guardians—seem quite unambitious without his mother or Littlefinger whispering in his ear. If they think tying themselves to the current dynasty too risky, no one can blame them.) 

“Tyrion discretely corresponds with both parties (he and Willas had been occasional correspondents prior due to their shared love of history; to Trystane, he can play the grieving uncle sad his niece never saw her wedding day—not too hard a task). Both agree: they would not hold any grudge against the other man should he wed Daenerys personally, but it would cause great distress amongst their house and bannermen. No one begrudges the downfall of Houses Frey and Bolton, however. With no surviving senior members of House Greyjoy, Daenerys appoints a new lady from a lesser branch and tells them they will keep the peace under threat of dragonfire.

“So Daenerys does not wed. She invites all of the great houses to send a representative to sit on what she calls the Westeros Council. But with so much unrest and so much rebuilding to be done, this larger council dissolves as they leave to see to planting and reaping their harvests. 

“Many years later, she eventually takes Tyrion as consort. The political situation is such that few begrudge it given the title, which has even less power than that as Hand, but not so much as a husband. The quiet love between them has been there long enough. Those that were not fighting the war resent House Lannister still holding such influence, particularly given that it almost destroyed the Seven Kingdoms. Your death, Cersei’s death, your father’s death, your childrens’ deaths do not buy Tyrion any peace from them despite powerful statecraft. But those who fought in the north can only find it in themselves to be happy for them; happiness is still hard to come by these days.

“All the while, Brienne bears your girl child quietly on Tarth. She names her Joanna. Your brother, better than any, understands the need for discretion and he finds martial- and trade-related reasons to visit and quietly bear the royal proclamation of legitimacy just in case it is ever questioned in the future. Brienne doesn’t look at it until long after he is gone and finds that her and Jaime’s child has been declared third heir should the others not prove fruitful or live. She dearly hopes it shall never be needed, but she also understands what it means from both her queen and from Tyrion for their regard for Jaime. Of course, she never thinks her own worth had a part to play. She has long become quite practiced at crying alone in her chambers, quietly, but she is not completely alone. While she never remarries nor takes a consort or paramour, Pod helps her raise and train her child as her loyal castellan, as patient as Ser Goodwin. Your family continues in a new way, finding a different sort of contentment, new moments of joy. 

“Those of the Time Before Winter begin to die, Lord Willas chief amongst them, thrown from a horse. House Tyrell had already lost so much, but Willas was the only surviving member of the family who lived through the War of the Five Kings and the Second War for Dawn and could remember a time before. Without him, his house single-mindedly seeks influence and vengeance. While they acquire it for a time, in the long run, it destroys them forever…but that comes later.

“Brienne is strong in her middle age like her father. Ser Joanna visits often with the grandchildren who pester her to tell them about the Second War for the Dawn. While her daughter’s deep blue eyes makes her smile because she knows how much Jaime wanted their child to have her own, secretly, her green-eyed grandchildren fill her with a special contentment and glee because the only other time she sees Jaime’s particular shade of green is in Tyrion’s left eye. She makes sure they know the full story of the Kingslayer, or Ser Goldenhand the Just as the histories (particularly those penned in the Westerlands and Riverlands) sometimes call him. 

“She is called to battle to lead the forces of the Crown, the Westerlands, and the Stormlands—she has long been the throne’s most respected general and is one of the few of Daenerys’s familiars with whom those less friendly to the Iron Throne will speak as she is widely acknowledged as truthful, honorable, and not remotely subtle. Despite the best efforts of all, the situation with Dorne has gone past diplomacy. 

“She arrives to discover that unknown to the crown, the Martells and Highgarden have put aside their past differences to strike back at the Iron Throne. Because they respect Brienne, the current Princess Martell and Lord Tyrell let her feel the knife at her throat before striking. Brienne is considered a lamentable but necessary casualty.

“ ‘Ser Brienne, we regret this course of action was necessary,” Lord Tyrell demurs. “Your sense of duty and loyalty are legendary. They say that our houses live yet in no small part to you. My princess and I deeply regret that we must kill you and your forces.’

“ ‘Lord Tyrell. I knew your great-grandmother, Lady Olenna. She was a truly remarkable woman. Tongue could be petal soft, but also sharp as a thorn—and as incisive. She was kind to me when she did not have to be. I knew your great-uncle, Loras. We fought, but he was honorable and a great knight before he was brought down. Your great-aunt Margaery was also known to me. Her weapons were those of a lady’s but she fought more bravely with them and under greater threat and pain than you bear. While they each would appreciate your dedication to your family, they would find your methods sloppy for you put the family in even greater danger by your actions here: either way, you have greatly antagonized the Iron Throne and its allies, as well as Tarth’s allies. Yes, you will likely kill me, but the might of the kingdoms will rain down and destroy both the Reach and Dorne as a result. Had you gone after the queen alone more subtly, you might have deposed her, but coming after me?’ She laughs long and loud because despite being quite sure she _will_ die having read her captors’ faces, the situation is genuinely hilarious: she realizes that she, Brienne the Beauty, Maid of Tarth, Kingslayer’s Whore, has more political and martial clout than the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms—a beauty and expert stateswoman who once commanded _dragons_.

“Princess Martell and Lord Tyrell are momentarily taken aback at this unexpected reaction. Brienne’s belly laughter is beyond what they expected and the soldier at her back freezes in his shock. While she was reported to be calm in the face of battle, no one said she literally laughed in the face of death—that sort of behavior was attributed to the Kingslayer. She uses her captors’ collective bemusement to wrench the knife from the soldier’s throat and turn it against him in a smooth, practiced movement.

“She is quickly overcome as soldiers pour in and five guards hold her: two on each arm, and one again at her back with a knife to her throat.

Brienne reflects that while the queen has never quite recovered from the loss of her dragons, her sweet goodbrother mastered the Game of Thrones before anyone realized he was even a player and had no cyvasse pieces at all, whereas now he controls the board. One way or another, she shall be avenged…but the thrill of vengeance is fleeting; she is saddened. She won’t see him again. She won’t see her daughter or grandchildren again. It’s more death, what the Others wanted. 

“She is not scared or sad to die, but she wishes it was to a worthier foe.

“They finally give the signal, and her throat is cut, blood coating the armor that her love had commissioned for her so very many years ago at the beginning of things from the deep Tarth blue of her eyes to Lannister red. She whispers soundlessly, ‘Jaime, I follow you into the dark,’ thinking herself alone, but I hear her, for I am always listening. Sansa will learn first of what has happened, then Daenerys and Tyrion.”

“She is not wrong: a war is launched on the Reach and Dorne, long before the realm is truly ready to fight another. It hastens the dissolution of the Seven Kingdoms breaking down into the component states although most alliances from the Second Battle for Dawn hold for at least a few generations before they devolve in the face of greed, pride, and incompetence. The longest lasting truce is between Houses Targaryen, Stark, Tarth, Lannister, and Baratheon.

“The Iron Throne wins, but it also loses. The otherwise carefully tended peace of six score years fades as do the lessons of the Long Winter that Maester Sam and Lady Gilly carefully recorded turn into legend. The houses turn on each other in greed and pride and fear and the wheel turns.”

\---

“There is a final possibility, fragile though it is: more of us, thanks to chance and circumstance, survive. There are a few that are almost sure to die regardless, for there are always casualties in war. 

“Daenerys and Jon consummate their betrothal early—a lucky thing because without their son, the kingdom falls apart almost immediately. They marry both in the godswood of Winterfell and again in the Sept at Riverrun on their way south to the capital. (Edmure wanted to object, but Sansa silenced him, truly my mother reborn.) Gendry is legitimized, named Lord of Storm's End. They wait long enough for envoys from Dorne, the Eyrie, and the Iron Islands to arrive and then have a modest coronation. They are glad both Houses Tyrell and Martell sent emissaries and entertain them, along with the Tullys, Arryns, and Ironborn.

Daenerys delivers the child she never thought to be able to carry and names him Jaehaerys for his father as the king insists on being called Jon. Sansa is named second heir.

“They do not have an easy reign, despite the best efforts of your brother, Ser Davos, Lord Varys, and Missandei alongside the existence of two dragons. Those houses who did not fight in the Second Battle for the Dawn cannot believe the tales they hear from the north: they think it a story concocted by an upstart Targaryen and that Jon’s parentage a very convenient tale. They cannot mutiny outright, but old resentments fester that a Lannister should serve as hand to an absentee queen married to a bastard king. Still, between the alliance of Houses Tarygaryen, Stark, Lannister, Baratheon, and Tarth alongside two dragons, it quells open dissent. Tyrion, Sansa, Varys, and Missandei believe they can bring Houses Tully and Arryn around (and possibly Greyjoy), but given the deep enmity of Houses Martell and Tyrell with House Lannister, it is a harder task. (Ser Davos concentrates with assistance from Tyrion on the more mundane matters of statecraft.) 

“While the long-standing hostilities between Highgarden and Dorne houses may give them some room to maneuver, it is only sheer numbers of the rest (and dragons) that keep them from banding together in rebellion against the throne.

“Years pass and slowly, the kingdom heals. Gendry and Arya marry in front of the Old Gods. Fields are planted, towns and cities rebuilt. The small folk do not care who sits the throne, only that they are allowed to live their lives in peace. Sam and Gilly write down the story of the War of the Five Kings and the Second Battle for the Dawn. Then they copy it three times with help from Little Sam, who grows rather tall, and their daughter Talla: one copy for King’s Landing, one for Winterfell, and one for the Citadel (which rather likes to pretend Sam doesn’t exist, despite the king and queen being quite insistent on his maintaining both his chain and his family).

“Tyrion, canny man that he is, has given up his (in)famous whoring by all accounts before coming back to Westeros even, and he tactfully gauges interest in Houses Martell or Tyrell for a marriage-based alliance—for marrying the Hand of the Queen and Lord of Casterly Rock is no small opportunity—but comes up empty handed (or so you laugh one evening you and Brienne have been dragged into court for some important matter). 

“No, Houses Martell and Tyrell both hate House Lannister despite your brother’s position and truly charming personality. Some ten years after the Second Battle for the Dawn has been won and has peace more or less settled, Tyrion and Sansa find themselves sharing a flagon of Dornish red in his solar. (Political antipathies would never interrupt the wine trade, particularly for such a good, longstanding customer as Tyrion Lannister.) 

“Sansa recalls being summoned here to sit before Twyin Lannister as a girl, terrified, being told her fate. Fifteen years gone, now she is a woman grown and fully comfortable in her seat. No lord to answer to—for she has refused all offers—she has become as adept a player of the game as he; he appreciates her perspective. Somehow, across the years, they have also become friends. They enjoy each other’s company. 

“Over a glass, he drops a light comment about how they bicker like an old married couple and Sansa replies wryly that it’s not surprising because they are. And then something shifts between them, a look longer than they’d ever shared before. Some many such conversations later, they are married (again) within the year. This time, Sansa kneels to receive her new cloak, and this time, the cloak is a Stark cloak embellished with Lannister motifs. 

“She retains her name and only comes to court for the very most important occasions for she still has no love for the place. To be fair, she has little love as she imagined it as a girl, but after all these years, there is respect and care between them. She thinks she might finally understand what her mother spoke of so very many years ago. She gives birth to their first, a daughter named Catelyn, and yet another weight between them shifts as they behold her, both smitten with this tiny person who has Sansa’s pale eyes and Tryion’s streaked hair and strident voice. Tyrion splits his time between Kings Landing and Winterfell. They also go to Tarth at least once a year,” Bran smiles.

“Time passes. There is talk of Prince Jaehaerys marrying Lady Catelyn, Sansa and Tyrion’s firstborn daughter. Neither Sansa nor Tyrion are eager to throw her daughter into a political marriage given their own experiences; she’s still young, the bones of the reunited realm are still soft. Anyhow, they still have other great houses to bring back into the fold and the prince’s hand is an important asset.

“Meanwhile, Brienne births your daughter on Tarth, where she is raised—a bit quite strictly by Brienne, but only because Joanna must be the Evenstar one day—also to offset how the little lady’s father and Ser Pod the castellan indulge her so. You revel in her deep blue eyes, straw-like hair, and breathtaking earnestness while Brienne is grateful that if he daughter inherited both their heights and strength of arm, at least she got her father’s looks and wit as well.” Jaime’s heart expands to near bursting, nearly seeing it as Bran says it.

“Joanna fosters at court, serving as a squire to Ser Daven. Tyrion wanted her, but had to admit that given her greater skill is with sword and mace, so she ought to squire for a knight, not a politician. A strong, tall child like her mother, precocious like her father, she wins the melee in her first tourney as a squire at age 13. She wields a mace.” Jaime’s heart warms further. 

“Unlike her mother, she has her father’s sense of humor and her uncle’s sense of mischief and so she names Prince Jaehaerys the Queen of Love and Beauty, causing a minor scandal—the fallout being that Jaehaerys challenges her to a duel with tourney weapons which she wins handily, but also doesn’t gloat about, helping him up. Older squires and even some of the younger knights having seen her in the tourney and sparring just now, challenge her as well, and she methodically knocks them into the dust without malice: it’s simply what she does. The prince stays to watch and his ego is somewhat soothed seeing older, more seasoned warriors falling to her one after another. King Jon suggests they train together. They become fast friends because while she shows him the respect and honors due her future sovereign, she doesn’t think to hold him in awe in the practice yard, which he eventually finds refreshing.

“Whispers across the city suggest perhaps they do not just spar in the yard.” Jaime is surprised by the wave of fatherly rage he feels explode inside of him for a child that may never be born. “The match is considered in the Small Council. While Tarth is still considered a minor house, it would tie the Stormlands more closely to the crown. And whether the prince weds your daughter or Sansa’s, the bride would be have ties to House Lannister…not a benefit given the current situation. 

“The only people _not_ worrying about the prince’s future bride are the prince himself, Lady Catelyn, and Lady Joanna.

“Years pass. The prince marries. The fragile peace holds. The wheel turns.

“When you and Brienne are both old and grandparents many times over, you fall ill. She has contracted it as well, but being younger, she bears it better. As she tends to you, you whisper to her remembering the first time she tended to your sick, weak body. You speak of how she cared for you in the baths at Harrenhal, reminding her of the steam, of your mutual nakedness—in all sorts of ways—of how you responded to her—again, in all sorts of ways—then. 

“You know this will be the last time you see her blush, and you savor it. You tell her you always wanted to die in the arms of the woman you love. You begin to cough, a dry, rattling thing that shakes you and goes on for far too long, dotting your lips and chest with Lannister red. Once again, you are weak in her strong arms as she holds you upright so you don’t drown. 

“ ‘Jaime,’ she breathes, her exhalation caressing you as one arm holds you steady while the other lets play her ever-so-gentle fingers from your hair, down your temple, cheek, cupping your jaw. Dressed in a loose tunic, your eyes dance along the scars of old, dwelling longer at the pale, deep traces at her throat from the bear, oh, the bear and his maiden fair. Her eyes still astonishingly blue and while he closes his, just to rest them for a minute, he sees her as he did then in his dream so many lifetimes ago: young, naked, brave, loyal, Oathkeeper flaming her in her hand. You open your eyes, find her own burning with that astonishingly blue flame.

“ ‘Brienne…’ you gasp, struck by her beauty, by her honor, her knighthood shining from her very being. And then you get your wish, breathing your last.

“Despite her relative youth, the illness has taken her as well. She has ignored it, sublimated the effects as much as she could while caring for you, but when she sees you die, something loosens. Her children are well and safe and loved. They have mentors and friends and their own alliances. She has served the realm honorably, fought so very many battles. She is tired. She is ready to rest.

“She whispers, ‘Jaime, love of mine: I will follow you into the dark. Wait for me.’ She kisses your temple, then your lips, and lies down next to you, arms still holding you.

“They find you both the next morning, still holding you. Ravens fly and the Seven Kingdoms mourn those who were once the Kingslayer and Brienne the Beauty.”

Jaime is quiet for a long while, absorbing all this. Like a raven, a thought lands on him, jolting him out of his reverie, an insistent croaking squawk.

“And you, Bran? What of you? Lord of Winterfell in Sansa’s absence, I suppose, but what of yourself?” Jaime looks up at Bran, eyes wide, questioning.

“I remain at Winterfell to advise Sansa, then her children, and so on until no one can remember exactly who I am any longer.” Jaime looks stricken. “Oh, don’t worry,” he smiles, nearly looking his young age for a moment. “They will live long, but being a greenseer, if we survive the war, I will outlive you all. I will join with the roots of the heart tree here—I know there’s a way between the crypts and the godswood, I can see it. If we defeat them, once you are all gone and my great-great-great-grand nieces and nephews only know my name as a song, I will find my own peace flying the ravens, running with the wolves, watching what has been and what might be, ready should I be needed again,” he grins. “It is a good end. If it comes to this, I am content.”

The dry, chill air makes Jaime’s face hurt, his whiskers freeze. He snaps back to the here and now, armor heavy and cold, hand on the pommel of his sword, returning Brienne’s gaze from across the field and thinking of what might be. He is not a pious man, but he sincerely prays to the Warrior, the Mother, the Father, the Crone, and the Stranger that Brienne might survive, that Joanna might draw breath in the spring, that maybe, if they are more merciful than he deserves, that he might be able to meet his child.

Jon blows the horn, the dragons lift off, and they all go out together yelling their defiance, battling Winter to discover which fate they will meet in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINIS
> 
> Well, for good or ill, we made it! This monster was just supposed to be a very lean, vignetty 11 chapter fic of maybe 22k words or so…and instead, it’s clocks in at 21 chapters and maybe over 50k. (I blame Jaime's arrival in Winterfell. It was too much fun to write and I got carried away and just sort of stayed there.)
> 
> All hail The Wiki of Ice and Fire for fact-checking and occasional canonical inspiration!
> 
> As my first wholly original (i.e. not based on something other than ASOIAF/GOT) multi-chapter fic, I learned a LOT. Your insightful and/or kind comments kept me going (as well as wanting to contribute something to a fandom I've really enjoy reading over the years, so thank you, all you amazing writers). I don’t know if/when I’ll do another, but I enjoyed writing it. I’ve been going through some not insignificant shit and having this fic to focus on as a fun distraction helped a lot. I hope you enjoyed reading it!


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